Closed.

A burning passion, an unwavering desire for his attention, a small spark that blew up into an engulfing flame that would later consume every bit of the girl I once was. From the start of the story, I already knew we couldn't be friend. Despite knowing how the story ends, I feigned ignorance; so did he because lying to each other was better than to admit we were both dying. I still look longingly at the girl who was brave enough to be straightforward with her feelings. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Even as the flame settles, I can't help what wonder what were we? Less than strangers because we talked everyday, during school, in the morning before school, in the afternoon when you were on the bus, late up until the night settle; up until you left without a trace, no note left in my hands, nothing. Some could say acquaintances, but I couldn't talk to you face to face; and I already knew he wouldn't. Not friends either, since friends are the people you hang on close to, the people you share your biggest secrets with, and the people you tell everything to. This "whatever" as I refer to it was short, but the time we spent together felt long. We talked everyday, I told him everything, and then it ended. I just want to let this story die; to burn and bring back the girl I once was. I want her back. I want her back more than I want him back. Our path got lost among the looming trees, grass fighting amongst the wind, and the daffodils weeping their hearts out as I did too when you left. Belonging amongst your memories never suited the whimsical life I live. Walking down the smooth, inanimate path you trailed was never the life I wanted. When he stole the girl I was, locking her up in a bird cage, forever meant to sit idly waiting, was when I forgot what I wanted aside from him. I used to keep count of the days of no contact, I've forgotten now. But I think it's better for this "whatever" to be over than for me to be string along a rope I thought was fate. Whispers in my heart beg for me to incinerate this thing, to let it die; I think it's time I stop rereading the pages of a half sewed together book. All he's become is somebody that I used to know, I'm sick of waiting for his love. I am just going to lay this story in the place it belonged; into the fire of the past, to burn, giving birth to the new verison of me. Have you seen her?