I rarely think of the one who loved me most, even though she still thinks of me. This isn’t on pur­pose; it’s a sim­ple case of me mean­ing more to her than vice ver­sa.

I’ve avoid­ed such an unre­quit­ed obses­sion with my last love. I stopped all con­tact, cut myself off from any­thing that’d pre­vent me from heal­ing or mov­ing on, and I’m proud of myself for hav­ing the strength to break such self-destruc­tive habits.

But I can’t hide from my own mem­o­ries. When touched and inspired so sig­nif­i­cant­ly, one can’t help but remain for­ev­er changed.

Between the choice of giv­ing things a chance and los­ing me for­ev­er, she chose the lat­ter. So I won­der if she ever thinks of me now, the one who will always have loved her most, or whether I’ve just become anoth­er one of the wound­ed boys who stag­gered and fell so help­less­ly against her graces.

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