she sits on the couch with tears flowing down her face. the movie just ended with the two leads getting married as so many love stories do. but her tears arent from happiness for the characters. the tears are for her. most people love weddings but she doesnt. they remind her of how lonely she is. not in terms of her being single but in regards to friends. she often wondered if she had a wedding how many people would be there? how many bridesmaids will she have, if any at all? how many people would be there that she wanted to invite versus those she had to invite. would her side be empty while her husband's overflowed? how could she have gone through life and not accumulated friends? some 'friends' were simply her friends through association and when they no longer had that association, they left. some she had considered her closest friends but they didnt even consider her as part of their inner-circle. and those she considered her best friends would never reach out to her. any news she got would be given months after they had happened. parties would be thrown and the invites would be forgotten to send to her. people would say they got their friends in highschool but how was she to find friends when she was trying to find herself? in university no friends were obtained either as no one would speak to her except in regards to assignments and the workforce still yields nothing. she goes out with her colleagues for drinks but no one seems interested in being friends. they all have their own lives, their own friends. and so she sits on the counch, crying with no one to confort her.

what if. two small words that when put together become so powerful.

I recently read an article discussing what a what if person is. It is the one person you consistently ask yourself "what if i told them how i felt? what if we gave it a chance? what if? what if? what if?" while reading the definition i immediatley thought of you.

For years i've tried erasing these thoughts, these feelings i get when someone even mentions your name or an aspect that reminds me of you. most people can move on from somebody because they had something tangible to move on from. but i don't. i never did. and i most likely never will. when trying to move on people will get rid of anything that had to do with the person. The only thing i have from you is the memories, the love for poetry you inscribed within me, the late night conversations where you helped me work through my problems. I would outwardly smile when hearing your voice over the phone then inwardly crumble as i heard the other voices in the background. the voices reminding me i was only a small part of your life and that was all i was ever going to be. i was never going to be a big part of it even in terms of friends. years have passed, we don't talk and yet i still think of you. i thought i was getting better, i thought i was moving on but then you'd appear in a dream or on a breeze like whisp of a memory. Other people can move on because they know it didn't work out but how can i if we never tried. how am i supposed to let you go when i never held you. why should i have your prints on my heart when none of my fingers have barely touched yours. how could i tell you how i felt when i know you will never feel the same. when i knew i will never be a what if in your mind.

Why do i write? Many people will say they write because they need a place to express themselves, or they have a passion for literature, or need a method to sort out what's in their head. Thats not why I write though. I write because I get a feeling. An uncontrollable urge to write. It's hard to explain but it's like cacoons inside my stomach, the butterflies trying to escape. It's an itch, a pull. It consumes me until I grab a pen and write. ]It doesn't matter what I write as long as I do. The butterflies are sqirming, almost breaking through. Everything I write brings them a step closer to being able to fly, a step closer to spreading their beautiful wings and enchanting the world. I write for those butterflies. I write to help them grow. They don't care if what I write is bad as long as I do. And when I write I feel the pull releasing its grasp slightly, enough for me to escape. But at this point I don't want to escape. I've grown attached to those butterflies and I want them to soar forever. I want to keep them flying high. And so that's why I write, because once I've gotten a taste of it I cant stop. It's an addiction. One day the high will be over but I know that that pull will come for me again. The feeling will wash over me and I wont be able to resist, but I wouldn't want to anyway.

When I was little I was afraid of like dark, like many other children. Truth is I wasn’t so much afraid of the darkness as I was of what might be contained within that darkness and the many possible horrors hidden in every shadow. When going to bed I would quickly close my curtains without looking outside to prevent me from seeing a nightmare that may or not have been there. When I grew up I was still afraid of the dark I just learned how to hide it. Instead of leaving my bedroom door open to let the light from the corridor into my room I kept my phone light on. I believed would always stay this way. Then I met you. You loved the dark. You thrived in the dark. I wanted you to like me so i started looking at the darkness and saw everything you did. I saw all the beauty and mystery and became comfortable surrounded by darkness. A part of me was still afraid of the dark. A part that mad me feel like any minute I could slip and and get swallowed by the darkness. And I did. I fell deep into your eyes, the darkest of the dark and I have yet to escape from the hold they have on me.