She told you she loved you and that she wouldn't let anyone in except you, she promised that she'd carve her skin for you and make a blood covenant with you, sing a thousand lullabies for you, and set free hundreds of doves for you. She looked you in the eyes and told you that a future with only you is all she can envision and with a printed picture in your mind, you nurtured this thought, a thought she had planted in your heart and mind and hope, she told you she wouldn't leave unless you died and you fucking believed it all.
He came into the picture, cloaked as a friend, he widened your circle and everything went well. He was able to understand both of you so much that he completed your sentences and was never tired to be by your side. Ten weeks gone, you were already brothers. Twelve weeks, she called him her twin. During all of these, your fiery passion never dwindled. The spark that fused your love never shifted in frequency—you were trapped in your own fantasy.
Fifteen weeks past, she starts to act funny. Your calls unanswered, texts read and not replied, the conversation got staler than stale and your laughters felt like bile. That once erotic frenzy turned to ice, and the eyes turned dark like the dots in a dice. Simple touches became repulsive and the touches lost its spice.
Things weren't glowing anymore. The candle had worn out and now it's just wax and a string that's keeping both of you together still.
A string that let go the moment she came into your house, with swollen eyes which was a sign that she had been crying. She falls at your feet and sobs, calling out to you repeatedly. Normally, you would squat and touch her body but the mere look at her made your skin crawl and your fingers were at disobedience to your brain. You watched her lie there, sobbing, asking for forgiveness. What is it that she needed forgiveness for you did not know—however you had a clue.
A clue that you so wished wasn't true. A clue that if validated, would turn your bright into blue. A clue, which sadly, came true.
She had fallen for your friend, and had touched him without a regard for you and now she's torn apart and shattered because now she is with child. She narrates this, with tears in her face, and her dampened clothing smooshed all over your feet, you watch your smile turn into a stale pale. And everything bright and gay turned muddy and grey. The beautiful sunflower turned to crumpled leaves, and all you could think of, was how you were going to tell her—with a heavy heart—to leave.
