Dear Love,


I’m a little bit out of my mind right now.
And so, I’m going to be frank and say whatever it is that I have in mind about you.




A cynical girl who doesn’t see the point of relationship– who took pride in being independent and self-sufficient, who enjoys her freedom and just doesn’t want to trade it for anything– that believes love isn’t even for her– at least not for now– that would look at someone in her self-satisfied manner and says:

“… And what is love anyway?”

I wonder if you’ve just been making excuses to cover up a painful truth that you were weak inside– that you were so, so scared– that you were so hurt and up-guarded that you didn’t dare to dream anyone would ever want to get close to you and really know you– to knock on your door and be a part of your life. Maybe you even doubted that it was possible, for maybe, maybe you feared that being you was being unbearably too much– for your own battle of understanding, accepting and loving yourself didn’t seem to end anytime soon yet.

You showed the world the pretty part of you, and you kept the rest of it all for yourself– hard to contain, tough to see, too broken to trust– or so you thought. You used smiles and positive thinking and maybe, maybe alcohol as the band-aid, not knowing when you would be cut open and break down like an overheated machine– All the while, you convinced yourself that you didn’t need more of those shits.

Maybe it’s true, maybe on some Saturdays or even Sundays, with some people, at certain stage of life, you really don’t mind– after all, most of the times, you got what you specifically asked for and it was fun and fair. But maybe there’s another day that you feel like you had to do something– that you had to look past the easy and comfortable and tell yourself another story.

You don’t want to be weak, or scared, or run away like a goddamn coward; yes, you’re not a coward, you’re strong, and you’re too passionate to live a life of superficiality and mediocrity– maybe that’s the truth that matters a million times more than fear, than tears, than scars, and even insecurities– carefully, cunningly, wickedly– hidden underneath the seemingly unbreakable shell, the bold statements, and the condescending laugh of yours.

True, there might be too much in you, but every bit of that too much deserves to be on fire and wholly loved– to be seen, be known, be touched– not just on the flesh, but deep inside your core– all with one hell of a burning desire. Because I know that you don’t want unsure interest and half-arsed attention– you don’t want kisses that are gone as soon as they leave the lips– and especially, not the kind of touching that makes you feel like you’re only good for your body.




And that’s why, I will dare myself to say this:

I want you back, and I want you to keep coming back.

Back for – maybe – drinks, back for dinner and talks, back for long walks and bus rides and slow kisses under the twilight sky, back for one more night and many nights to let loose and be free with our instincts.

Trust me– let me take off your layers, and then unwrap everything in you– raw, and fierce, and sincerely yearning for your secrets– for your imperfection, wounds, and vulnerabilities– for your ideas, aspirations, and dreams– for a world that only you and me can see– show them to me and go all in with me.

No, Love– you don’t have to be afraid anymore.




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