I was the one who made him seem so special.
It took me a long time to admit that. For the longest time, I
thought he was different, the way he spoke, the way he
smiled, the way he made me feel seen, even just for a second.
But now I see it clearly: it wasn't him who was special. It
was the way I chose to see him. I was the one assigning
meaning to every word, every glance, every almost. I turned
his silence into mystery, his inconsistency into complexity,
his half-efforts into affection. I romanticized the bare
minimum because I wanted to believe in something beautiful,
even if it was one-sided.
I wrote him into poetry he never deserved to be in. I built a
whole story out of moments that never meant anything to
him. And I kept rereading it, hoping the ending would
somehow change. But it never did. Because he was never the
story, I was. I was the softness, the meaning, the depth. I was
the one who gave significance to gestures that were never
intentional. And that's the cruel part about having a tender
heart, you'll make ordinary people feel extraordinary simply
because you see the world through love. You'll paint them in
shades of gold when all they ever gave you was grey. But
someday, you'll realize that the magic wasn't in them. It was
always in you.
~Solace in Solitude
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