I would rather love him than be free

“But he could never love you.”, the voice in my head told me.

“It’s okay, he doesn’t have to, does he at least see you?” It replied.

I didn’t have an answer for that because I was afraid.

I was afraid that I had hit a dead end in my pursuit of someone who couldn’t love me, and even if he could love me, would he, is what I kept asking myself.

We saw each other everyday for six days of the week, yet he was the only one who got to feel wanted and validated. Maybe he didn’t even notice me. Maybe he forgot my name the second I told him.

I smiled from one corner of the room and he smirked from the other but it wasn’t half as bright as his smile when he looked in her direction.

Every time he failed to notice me I would hate myself for a grave that I had apparently dug for myself. The hole in my heart was too big to fix now.

And every time he spoke to me, my brain oozed endorphins and vasopressin. Testosterone surged everyday of the week. He made me work harder, look better, and most importantly, be a better version of myself.

He gives me butterflies even when he’s not around.

For in my imagination, he looks at me like I’m the only guy in the room.

In my imagination he holds my hand when I’m scared.

In my imagination he tells me that I’m fine when I’m having a nervous breakdown just before my physics paper.

In my imagination he holds me in his arms, hugs me from behind and tells me in soft, husky undertones that he loves me and I’ll be just fine.

I feed my brain tiny tales of him and I because apparently something is better than nothing.

I would rather love him than be free.

I would rather love him than be free.

I would rather love him than be free.

Author: Anonymous

Editor: Ananya Chaure

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