sutini writes

You told me once that I talk too much and ask too many questions. But you answered them anyway. You told me that I was pretty and that I was interesting to talk to. I never believed you, but you told them anyway. Now, even if it was lies, I’m thankful for you.

Maybe on a scale from one to fucking naive, I’m near the middle to believe that there is a reason for all this to happen. Like a pretty butterfly, you came, leaving me awestruck at the beauty of being alive. And you left, so quietly, so effortlessly, that I’m rendered cold and numb.

The nights are the worst cause those were like bright daylights for us. We will give each other code names, explore silly vocabulary and laughed out loud at our own stupidity. I still write such messages at night, with my mind, hoping that somehow, you will receive them. That time and spaces between us will ceased to matter.

My friend, the tingling at the back of your spine, the sudden breeze on your hair, the silence in that empty room, is me saying I miss you. I do not know how to stop.