Most of us carry with us, in a tiny corner of our heart our share of unrequited love. A small part in our heart that will forever remain crystallised… carefully preserving the pain.
Obviously, crystallised, not literally otherwise you’d be dead by now. Haha. Sorry, I was supposed to put up a lame-joke-alert.
Concentrate. I’m being serious now.
Of all the kinds of love, the one that has always baffled me is the almost-love. The worst kind. It’s the smell of freshly baked cake that wafts slowly into your room. Warm with all of it’s buttery goodness. You can see it, feel it, smell it… but you shall NEVER have it. Why, thank you.
You start with renting out your heart. First a little, then some more and then before you know your heart is owned by someone else. The butterflies in your stomach, increased heart-beats on seeing that person? Signs of a serious illness or if you Google well enough, one of the results could point out that, maybe you like this person.
You’ll almost tell your friends. Almost see your future, even if you think it’s ridiculous. A future that is almost happy and good. You’ll almost go weak in your knees every single time you see them.
And just when you think the almost is ready to disappear… it’ll disappear but with the love as well. But it’s not all bad.
Despite all the sadness that is attached to it, the almost-love shows you what love is supposed to be like. All of the goodness and the badness, with the exception that it’ll be real.
Almost love can break you, make you and break you again.
It’ll keep the hurt inside alive long after it has walked out the door.
Almost love can be magical too… but that’s the thing about it… it’s love but… almost.