The Lonely

It's simple.
Really; so, so simple.

Just a few sentences. A handful of words. Strung together to form lines of thoughts, with hidden meanings tucked between.
But she doesn't know the meanings.
Can't crack the code, can't understand when only now does it matter.

Oh God, how she wishes it was in person. Or at the very least a phone call. You can hear emotions, but you can't read them; not when they're wrapped in cold, surgical-like letters.

She's curled, hunched, reading those sentences and tapping out a reply while silent tears form slowly in her eyes.
She'd forgotten.
How could she forget her?

I should probably formally apologize for the utter garbage I posted previously today.
My thoughts are a tad skewered, I suppose, and frankly, I'm unaccustomed to writing from my own perspective, as so many of my writings recently have been focused on other characters.

So.
Yup.
There you are.

Juliet Wins out the War

My sister's boyfriend just left our house for the last time.

Somehow this entire situation, the last few days and this morning, felt akin to a war movie of sorts. Surprise attacks from the "enemy side", "peace treaties" offered and refused. Then the "general" calling the "enemy" before the "battle", because apparently their husband has a confrontation issue. Gotta give it up for projection.

Anywho, I've been on the sidelines this whole time. An uninvolved bystander, to this cheesy remake of Romeo & Juliet. And it's confusing, to say the least. But I do know that he just left for the last time, that all those afternoons and movie nights out with my sister and him have ended, are never coming back. He was an extraordinarily nice guy; smart, but not egotistical about it. Didn't mind my "tagging along". He was a great guy, and I was happy for my sister. But I will never really be able to comprehend the pattern of... love, so to speak? I guess thats why I'm still just a bratty little, "teenage" girl. Does it ever get easier? Do the plots ever clearly reveal themselves? Will I ever shut up?

Probably not.

But I have concluded that I am an egotistical hypocrite. I'm also a pyromaniac author, apparently, so lets just say I am one huge mass of contradictions and try to return to the topic beforehand.

I can't help but wonder how things are going to be, from now on. What will my sister's next boyfriend be like? What will her ex-boyfriend's next girlfriend be like? How long will it be before my sister gives me a genuine smile? A blissful laugh? What's going to trigger the influx of memories in a few days? Weeks? Months?

Why do I write about romance, when faced with situations like these, I swear never to involve myself with love?
Hence the hypocritical mass of contradictions.

But when I hugged him goodbye and whispered "I'm sorry", his eyes were red.