She’s afraid.

No, that was an understatement.

She’s terrified.

That’s it.

It terrifies her how each time her eyes finds him, she’ll automatically picture the never failing beauty of sunset. How he suddenly became the representation of full moon to her–so rare yet glamorous once there, lying in the endless sea of pitch black skies.

It’s horrible.

No, that was just a euphemism.

It’s bloody, hell–tragic.

It’s bloody every time she feels that the electricity coming from her veins when he’s around, slowly consuming her.

It’s a hell–the hotness will burn her skin, leaving wounds, turning into scars that’ll never fade–knowing that the probability of her heaven to him won’t occur.

It’s tragic, every time the world would make her realize that he’s a butterfly, flying above the endless field of flowers. He’s enraptured with the whole scenery. Maybe a sunflower on a bed of roses will capture his attention so he’ll pluck it but at the end of the day, it’s still the rose–and just the rose–that he’ll pick.

To sum it all up.

Her love to him is the tragedy of this universe.

Yes. And this time, it wasn’t an understatement.


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