TIme is a bitch.
The only thing worse than knowing that your seconds with her are limited is knowing that, even if she was also aware of this shortage of time, she still wouldn’t feel motivated to put forth any feelings; she would never surrender her heart and soul at the most dire of moments when you’re almost expecting it. The time to act was then, but as the memory was painted across the canvas, its color instantly bled through and faded, the stroke having not amounted to all you had hoped for.
Another opportunity foreseen but now gone, its abysmal echo ringing from an empty trophy case, where, if taken advantage of, the memory could have been cherished forever. Nothing is more painful than sensing the perfect instance to pour your heart out, to make the move, to do anything that would act as a slight indication to the overabundance of passion bursting at the seams of your heart, but the person you yearn to relinquish all of those unbearable emotions to has no clue that beneath a calm surface, your currents churn violently with anticipation. And then she doesn’t even realize how perfect the moment is, and just as soon as it has appeared, it’s vanished, and you can feel its absence concaving into your chest. Maybe if she had known how much you suffered, how many times a knife stabbed your heart as you forced patience upon your mind and convinced yourself that in time she will realize the extent of punishment you are subjected to every time you look at her, she would have felt an urgency to assure you that she too suffers as you do, in the silence of unrequited love.
But alas, without your speaking up, she remains as fucking clueless as ever and doesn’t see nearly as much significance in a single moment as you do. That, or if you were that desperate to find out whether she cared or not, you could risk opening the vault and expose your heart, to be either accepted or rejected. You stare into her eyes and analyze the delicate dilation of her pupils as she registers the expression that has suddenly busied your features, that look of adoration with a hint of angst due to all of those damn times when you should’ve spoken and chose not to. A second expands into a year as your eye contact hangs, defying the laws of time and space, and you can feel your fingertips tingle with the need to touch her, to release yourself from this elongated frame of tortuous suspension. It all comes down to this instance; to act or not to act. Your heartbeat is rapid against your eardrums, pleading that your intentions are the same as hers. And suddenly time restores itself and she blinks and looks away, and the breath you had been holding in readiness is stuck in your throat, which now feels rough and swollen.
He had seen a moment worth making memorable with an act of bravery, of risky expression, but caught up in the excitement of his suppressed passions, he missed it. That couldn’t have been it. It couldn’t have. Not after all he felt, the wasted times where he swore he would grow a pair and do something. This setback blew on the dying cinders of his desires, reigniting a sudden burst of passion. In a desperate attempt to regain her attention and win her love, he finally acquainted himself with a few words he had hoped would come to him sooner.
There were three of them. Three words draped in silence outside their pronunciation, hanging effortlessly in between spaces where sound ceased to grant existence. Three words, when arranged into a specific phrase, possess such a power that cannot be obtained with a different combination. Three words, simple to hear but impossible to fully understand the gravity of meaning behind them. Three words that are separated by the breaths of the speaker and the spaces that distinct word from word, yet linked by the emotional power that can be found only when the second word follows the first and the third follows the second. These words convey an emotion so deep and profound, an absurd joyous ache that provokes endless faith and loyalty to another being, this absurd thing we call “love”.