This isn’t love.

She knows this to be true, eyes wide awake at 2 in the morning.

Though she spends the last several minutes poring over your note, letters scribbled in a lazy mess– though she runs her fingers through parchment, analyzing every groove of where your pen landed, like they were carefully placed hints to mean something more– there is nothing more.

This isn’t love.

And so she argues with herself back and forth, spending the entire afternoon questioning what she thought she knew to be true, and what she hadn’t, and decides whether these new pleasant surprises that shook her to the very core of her being were welcome–

She thought of herself as a rock, firm and unwavering, until a tidal wave crashed over, threatening to uproot her from where she stood.

She plays an excerpt of your conversation in her head over and over again, looking for hidden messages, signs she might have missed, if only to convince herself of the inevitable.

This isn’t love.

With a steady hand, she calms the growing throes in her chest.


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