This is not love. This is a war. For he resides not in any of the depths of your heart, but you have inhabited him into your mind. And trust me, this is not one of the many novels you read. There is no moral waiting for you at the end. Nor is this any of those cinematographic scenes with a fine ending to close.

This is a crime scene. He has murdered your soul. And he has managed neatly to sculpt you into everything you wish you were not. He has turned you into himself. An even stronger version of nihilist. You have lost your hope, your curiosity and your innocence. You have lost your entirety.

And this search for he, who got away, is a terrible terrible poison you have chosen for yourself. You now cluelessly wander around with feeble chances to find him in every other person you meet. You never learned to give up. You are not willing to learn to move on. And with every passing minute, he is infiltrating your mind further and further, deeper like a parasite. He, who is your past, is the murderer of your present.

If you still believe this is love, hey, whom are you fooling? This is a full blown war. And in reality, you are in a war with your own conscience. You are fighting against your own defences. This has never been about him. It is about you. It has always been about you. You and what you ought to be and what you came to become.

And right now,
I can see you are dying,
One more time,
But only this time,
He is not the one who is killing you.
It is you.

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