This is specially to celebrate Taengsic's day, which is 22nd. This might be the last fanfiction from me for this year because I'm going back to school in less than two weeks time. I hope you enjoy this ;)

There are times I think it is all normal – how I feel, why I feel, what I feel – everything I am is established, fixed, conventional as any other living breathing human being on planet Earth, all 7.5 billion of them. Those times are the times when I come so close to downright believing that I am not crazy and everything is not a blur nor wrong; the realization and acceptance that I am perfectly and utterly helplessly in love with her. Her milky, fair skin; the way her strawberry-blonde hair flows; her skin ‘defects’ – having moles on peculiar places, secret spots that I had the chance of discovering as I explore every bits of her; the dorky, lopsided smirks: these are what the people love about her. From her visuals to everything she does. I love them, too. But it’s not just that – it’s that and the whole lot in between. I can’t possibly put it into mere words. She’s more than just ABCs. The antics I failed to notice before, now burns me with deep infatuation, floating annoyance, definite love. The ideas she possesses on running away from the cruelty of reality – the reality that what we have here will be looked upon as an abomination in the eyes of the society; to paint an image of the future consisting everyone she loves, living peacefully with nothing more than not loving me enough to worry about – a world where if no one is able to accept our personal affair of heart, then she’ll escape ‘till the end of the world to have me to herself. And she never forgets to color these dreams, because she thinks I am enough of black and white, she wants to fill me up with the colors of warmth, intimacy, passion and so much more she promises to give. The touches she makes contact with my skin inflict and trigger weaknesses in me that I, myself is not aware of. The comfort she offers in the form of words and actions – she’s not a vacation house for absconds, she’s the place we all run back to: home; she’s my home. The feelings she sparks in me, oh God how magical are they, I feel like World War III is taking place in every corner of every vein in me. Except this war – this war is beautiful. This war is so beautiful that I still ache for it even when I struggle to battle against the agony. But wars are fights. Wars are arguments. Wars are compromises. Wars are reconciliations. Even in those moments when she’s screaming and wailing and full of angst, hatred towards me, I fail to see the monster in her. I still adore her in her worst. Even when I am the one howling and barking at her, in the very end, I will always ask her to take my hand and grant me forgiveness for everything I never meant because it’s her. And I am miserable without her. She is not a drug; she is not something I should stay away from. But I am addicted.

I wonder how I must’ve used up all my luck in life to have her beside me like this, sleeping, looking almost angelic, pure even, if it wasn’t for the sheer clothes. How is it that I am tangled in so many ways with her, yet I feel the need to be closer, to squash our bodies nearer, making sure that we are connected, always. Her breathing so light, it gives me satisfaction as her chest ascends and descends in a consistent rhythm. Her sounds do that to me. They fill me up and leave me desperate for more. I remember the days when I refused to resign myself to the newly found emotions as I couldn’t – didn’t want to acknowledge them. The span when I hid and eluded away from her and everything she had to give: her adoration, solace, caress, dreams. It is unfathomable now to live and feel as alive without everything she is. I can with clarity recall the moment she found out about the confusing sentiments I held towards her. I can clearly see her respond to when I kissed her. She didn’t reciprocate it, but she didn’t back away either. I freaked, she didn’t. I felt worthless, she disagreed. I stumbled a step back, she took one step closer. She was so saintly while I felt like the devil, abruptly confessing my heart to such an innocent girl, when she didn’t have to know, when she could live a life without the burden of knowing the contents of my heart. The first time the microscopic electric shock struck inside me was when she cupped my wet, pathetic cheeks and showed unworldly understanding with her eyes, I still remember it vividly. The moment when she first told me she loved me is deeply etched in my brain. I remember the first night we spent together, not really doing anything. We lied down on her bed, talking about random theories, ideas, plans, and how this then was so sudden, wrong but also so darn right. I remember her whispering to me at night, saying we fit perfectly, repeating that we’re going to be alright every time I had doubts. I remember the first time I saw her broken. I didn’t know what to do so my cowardly-self fled. But she forgave me anyway. She is so accepting, so good for my own sakes. I can’t start to imagine leading a different life, loving a different soul. I remember the first fight. She erupted with rage, she threw solid things at me, she spat foul words, but I was so happy then. Even when my head throbbed as it made a thudding collision with one of the smaller non-stick pans in the dorms, in cloud nine I stood. I was bleeding but I felt pleasant all over because she panicked and kissed the wounds away afterwards. I sensed a great contentment over the fact that we had our first real love