Frank Ocean sings about his past lover in Ivy. Reminiscing his young love. So much to give, so little to be given. 

She listens to it when it gets bad, like a sort of diversion, almost reassuring even, knowing that someone out there is strumming his guitar to his heartbreak. It’s a progress to sing about the same thing that you used to cry to. She’ll get over it, she thinks. If she listens to it enough times she might just write a whole book dedicated to Kim Jongin. 

That’s what artists do. They become sad enough to make art. Drag themselves out of bed, open a notebook, bring out the guitar, put up a canvas. But what's the fine line between being sad enough to want to die and sad enough to make something out of it. There’s no black and white. Just a grey area. Borders blurry.

 She can still want to die and write about it. 

I thought that I was dreaming when you said you love me

She told Jongin she loved him first. Unsurprisingly. She always had a way to bring about things that were not meant to be uttered. They were on the phone and the call was about to end. It felt the same way it always did. Catching up on what they’re going to be doing today. It’s repetitive, and it gets boring. 

“I love you.” she said and hangs up. 

She didn’t expect much out of it. She’s said it enough times to enough people that those words lose its meaning. It was like saying good