Days, weeks and months passed so that the ever growing distance between us settled into a palpable, yet comfortable detachment. While perhaps out of habit, on occasion, we eased into our routine flirtation, it felt more genuinely wholesome. Even as I started to see you more regularly, the casualness between us finally began to resemble friendship, and it was pleasing. In turn, I thought of the two of you more supportively, with slight amusement, with much hope, like an old person watching a young couple fall in love. It felt right, even moral.

I assumed this role and owned it until one day, I walked across your view and as you looked up and I caught your eyes, time and space unravelled beneath my feet, catching me off guard. You smiled slowly, and maybe it was my imagination, but it glowed like sunrise in the middle of December, over a black lake, under a purple sky. I had to look away as I felt this brightness grow in me. Without summoning them, the metaphors came again.

In the ensuing days the old feeling of injustice plagued my inner life: how could my seemingly limitless capacity to ache for you not be met by a resolute design in the universe to bring us together?

Now they tell me, you’ve told someone somewhere that you’re finally pursuing her. I find out a week late the decisive show of interest; meager but based on your character, a gesture that spoke volumes. Amidst all this I feel oddly euphoric. Is this the new form of brokenness? Maybe it would be easier to let you go now, now that the metaphors have lost even their illusory anchor, I am unburdened at last.

How much longer is this to drag on?

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