As I flipped the last remaining pages of this agonizing yet magnificent novel; the black hue of the entrancingly written text, glimmered in my eyes as I drowned in nostalgia. Then I closed the book and kept it back in the shelf called memories. Where it'll always be sheltered, somewhere between those moments that we shared, tumbling through space and time, lost in each other; and in the library that lost its charisma. It was difficult. as I came to the last few chapters, the more I wanted to get to the end, the longer it took.
It's funny how we switch from wishing for some free time at school to attending the same lectures as that one person, even if it meant 2 hours of pure torture. From how you just let it be if you missed a day, to spend the rest of the day in regret of how you now have one less wish to get that person. 11:11 was something that gave me hope to wake up the next day, to wish about the only thing which could keep me going. How I wished for her to acknowledge me. To reciprocate what I felt for her. For a little spark which would turn into an untamed wildfire, and for that fire to burn the painful reality to the ground. But I don't think it might be very convincing, for when my wish does come true. For I crave for hardships that test my love all the time because I don't believe I deserve something so beautiful, contemplating on the hearts I broke in a million little ways of the ones who loved me and at th...
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