Work Text:
You expected him to move on, you always knew that your presence was fleeting in his life and you've come to terms with it. At least that's what you say.
But, the thought that you were such an insignificant person that could be discarded and forgotten by the span of four days hurt.
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You sit by the window, staring out at the snow, blanketing the ground with a pristine white, acting as a comforter. Beyond the frosted pane, two lovers are tangled in each others warmth, their laughter soothing and warming the atmosphere. Their laughter evident in their faces, shining brightly.
Oh how you wish you could be them.
You watch them from the comfort of your own home, a lukewarm coffee in hand, fireplace blazing, so warm yet so cold.
The way his eyes sparkle is evident even to you, the spark rivarling even the brightest of constellations.
In a twisted way, you are happy for him, he deserves warmth and comfort after every moment of pain and suffering he had been through, you knew that yet the sick feeling of envy would not invading your mind.
Maybe you refuse to accept it, maybe you are delusional, maybe you'd rather skin yourself alive then acknowledge that you were a fleeting chapter of his life, while he was your endless trilogy of books that you could never put to rest.
You tell yourself it's fine,over and over again, so much so that your throat sores at the mere thought of it, but you know that it's not even close to the truth.
How do you put of a façade so strong to fool even the observent men when each smile feels like lifting a thousand pound weight.
You swirl the cup of coffee in your hand, aimlessly. Looking at the coffee resembling a whirlpool, contrasting to the state of your mind.
In a twisted way, your life resembles a chess game, But you were never the queen, only the pawn.
You never had the upper hand, you were always the “used”.
The piece used to distract,
the piece used to build a defence,
the piece used to sacrifice,
never protected.
Is it a sin that your heart keeps demanding for love? , is it punishment given front he universe to give endlessly, pour your heart out over and over again, bleed and sin for the one you love, but never having them repricated.
To write untill you run out of ink, only to pick it back up again and continue, the toxic circle repeating again and again while your heart protests in pain.
Maybe it is.
Maybe love for you is fleeting, never meant to last.