She's A Fool

After several frikkin’ months, she has to admit that she loves him still. She hates it, believe me. She thought she was invincible enough to dismiss any kind of unimportant things. She thought she was strong enough to let him go. But reality strikes: she doesn’t have any strength left.

She lives in lies, telling herself that she’s forgotten about every beautiful day they did spend together. Once this technique made her feel better—the other days, it’s unsuccessful.

She completely knows that loving him has no use. Completely no use. But love always makes us blind, doesn’t it? She knows she has her own agenda, a life to pursue. So she wears a mask everyday, looking fine and happy and cheery and sweet, as other people tell her. She smiles, she laughs. Only then will people think she doesn’t have any problem. Only then will she save her hurt alone. Only then will the people who love her don’t feel worry anymore, while she’s dead beat of her pain inside. She doesn’t want everybody thinks she’s a crybaby. She doesn’t want everybody feels bored by the same story she tells. And this mask protects her from demeaning herself in front of people.

Why can’t she let him go? He’s flown away, so far, so far from her reach. She hopes that he loves her still, but her hope seems futile. She knows he has a lot more better love life than she does. She knows it already, she understands it completely, that he chose to move on rather than keep longing to go back to the past like she does, and life takes sides with him.

She hurts, everytime she meets him. Everytime she hears that ripe, crisp laugh, everytime she looks at the happiness in him. She envies him for having such a colourful life. She envies him for forgetting someone who was once being loved easily. She wishes she could be as good as him in dealing with love. She wishes she could be like him, having another girl to accompany his days, so he won’t feel alone anymore. He successfully colours his life without her aid. She feels disgruntled.

She entertains herself by listening to songs. She sings, sings about the open wound of her heart. Maybe she’ll feel that many people in this world has the same feeling like she does. Too complicated to be explained, it is something that can only be understood when you’ve felt it. She always feels better after listening to two albums of Secondhand Serenade, or any other corny, cheesy love songs that are so illogical.

She faces two contradictory opinions whenever she feels like daring herself to take another chance. One side feels happy, impatient of what the result might be—after all, it’s something challenging. The other side feels sad, realizing that she’s doing something out of her power, realizing that that will only make her worse. True, that a flame of hope should be ignited in one’s heart, but she’s failed in making that flame burns her spirit to fight her days—that flame burns herself to ashes.

She’s lost in an utopian dream. She mingles with a two-faced creature, the halcyon realms of fantasy. She doesn’t know which path she should take. Well, she knows, but she can’t take it. She’s forced herself to go along the right way, an optimistic path of youth. But she can’t. She always looks back whenever she goes on. Everything seems reminding her to him. When she enjoys the rain, the song, the poem, even the dead of night.

She hates the fact that she’s so vulnerable towards him. She hates the fact that he made her feel alive. She hates the fact that they had sweet memories. She hates the fact that a creature inside her hungers for his love. Why would she accept that toxic in the past? Why did she let that sunshine came in if it was going to go away again? Why is she a fool?

She wonders if he ever knows.

...but she doesn’t care whether he does or not.