I didn’t know if I was in love or if it was the idea of love that I was in love with. But I knew that I had certain feelings, feelings that put me on the verge of tears, feelings that I knew had to be erased. I was thinking too much, every day, every minute that I got a chance. And it wouldn’t make sense. This idea, this convoluted concept made no sense to me. The more I thought of the idea of being loved, the idea of being part of his life, of being held, the more I became delusional. This fantasy became my every night’s dream, leading me to beautiful places, to an escape of reality and everything that was ever sensible. In daylight I was a lost puppy, a fool, an optimist looking for any kind of sign, for even the slightest possibility. By night I was a dreamer again, living my fantasy in beautiful, inescapable dreams.
And that was it. I never figured out if it was the idea or if it was the real thing. For me, that fantasy stayed in my dreams and I was forced to abandon it. I was hurting inside, but I had no choice. I was a writer, nothing more. I could weave stories in any way, with any ending, with any beginning, but I simply could not bring the story to life.