In the quiet corridors of his mind, love unfolded, a ten-year epic where we danced through life’s seasons. Yet, in reality, our paths merely brushed, fleeting encounters lost in the crowd. He clung to a love story written in solitude, shaped by the echoes of his heart.
I tread different paths, shared laughter with others, creating memories outside his imagined chronicle. His heart’s compass directed him towards a love that never blossomed in shared glances or intertwined hands.
In his thoughts, our love story unfolded like a timeless masterpiece, painted with strokes of longing and scripted with whispers of devotion. But in my world, those sentiments never took root.
To him, I was the protagonist in a saga of his creation, a muse carved from dreams fueled by quiet yearnings. His emotions, built on fiction, carried a sincerity that couldn’t be dismissed.
In the delicate dance between perception and reality, his heart found solace in a love confined to his consciousness. As he navigated his emotions, I remained an unwitting character in a narrative I never co-authored.
His so-called love, unrequited in the tangible realm, illuminated human longing’s depth, the fragility of connections, and a heart that dared to dream beyond shared experiences. In the quiet corners of his mind, our ten-year love story unfurled, a testament to imagination and the bittersweet beauty of unfulfilled dreams.
Yet, within his mind, dreams and reality blurred into a landscape of delusion. Like a child crafting messages in hope, only to erase them, he danced on the edge, tiptoeing through a fantasy world.
He behaved like a 12-year-old, scribing notes of affection, only to erase them in fear. Each deleted message echoed the vulnerability of a heart caught in the crossfire of longing and self-deception.
As I pursued life outside his narrative, he clung to a story bearing the weight of desires. His delusions painted me as the central figure, while our connection remained a mere whisper in the background.
In the tapestry he spun, threads of imagination interwove with his emotions. His love, sincere yet misguided, became a testament to perception’s fragility and the heart’s capacity to create illusions.
In the corridors of his mind, where reality and fiction danced, our ten-year love story unfolded. A reminder that sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves differ from the truth. In the silent recesses of his imagination, the echoes of a love never lived resonated—a testament to illusions’ fragile beauty and a heart refusing to surrender its dreams. F@$K YES! @crystalsjohn
By – Crystal S John
100 pieces of the heart. 3:00am thoughts 
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