"And what is more tragic than a romantic who will never love again?"

It hurts to be the only one who remembers. I am quite sure I had been truly happy for some moments in the past—but they were fleeting. Flashes of the distant past come to me at any time of the day or in the stillness of the night. But because they are now so very far away, sometimes, I have to rummage deep into my mind to retrieve those happy thoughts.

Sometimes, I could not be sure if they are actual memories and not dreams, not merely a figment of my imagination.

As blurry as the happy memories are, the unpleasant memories come more lucid; I can feel the pain even though I try to refuse it, try to bury it in the deep. Why is it like this?

Why am I doomed to suffer such consequence for a long period of time? Is my loss not enough? Is my life not long enough to bear the kind of pain that does not diminish no matter how much of the sand has slid down the hourglass?

It hurts to be the only one who knows. It hurts to know it for a rather stretched span of time.

It hurts a lot I could just break down and die…

…but I don’t.