I’m going to write another story about you.
This time, I’ll make sure it’s true.
I’ll make sure that you will feel everything that happens here.
I will narrate your life the way I want it to happen.
And I’m going to hope that you’ll do whatever I say.
Though you may not be aware of what I am writing, I’ll just be looking at you and see if my plot works.
I should say you’ll meet me unexpectedly, in a way I know how will happen.
I will say my name.
You will say yours.
And that is how we’ll become friends.
There will be a night when you’ll suddenly call me and invite me to chat just because you couldn’t sleep.
And we’ll be talking and laughing all the way until sunrise.
And again on the next day.
Until we have months of sleeplessness.
And that is how we’ll become more than friends.
I’ll tell you our story, detail by detail.
And hopefully, you’ll see how much effort I put into you.
I’ll tell you how beautiful your face is.
Your dazzling eyes that shine.
Your lips as red as cherry.
Your cheeks as soft as cotton.
Your skin as fair as snow.
And there are a thousand more things about you that I could not describe through words.
As much as I want to do it, I should not mess with your life.
Who am I to dictate whatever happens to you?
I may be an author, but not of your life.
And if I was the author, would you follow what I write?
If you fall in love with me in my story, would you fall in love with me too?
That’s just what I’m wishing to happen for us two.
If you returned to me in my story, would you return to me too?
That was what I wished for when we fell apart.
If I kill you in my story, would it kill you too?
That was what I thought when I lost myself because of you.
And when the story is done, who would even read it?
Is the story of us really that worth reading?
What if our story wasn’t really worth writing?
What good would stories be if they’ll just stay as fantasies?
I’ll put my pen on the paper and think about you again.
This love better be fictional ’cause it’s killing me for real.