I’m trapped in this love for you, and it’s a place I wish I could escape from. I can’t help but hold you responsible for the mess I’m in, even though, deep down, I know it’s not your fault. You were just this tiny glimmer of hope, a speck of light in the pitch-black abyss of my life.
I can’t forget that one particular moment when you hugged me. It was at your doorstep, right after you came back from wherever. I thought I knew you inside and out, and I had a little something for you, probably flowers – but honestly, I can barely recall. As you disappeared behind those glass doors, you had no clue it was me standing there. I’d been dropping hints about leaving in my messages, but you didn’t quite catch on.
Then, you opened the door, and I started saying things that, in retrospect, didn’t matter at all. Silly stuff like, “Why didn’t you…” But what’s haunting about that memory is that I was desperately trying to push away the overwhelming wave of emotions your hug had stirred in me. I was attempting to shield myself from being utterly consumed by your touch, even if it was just a simple hug. So, I babbled on, hoping it would somehow distract from the intensity of the moment.
But you, you hugged me harder right there on your doorstep. You pulled me close, almost as if by instinct, but it was a passionate pull that yanked me deep into your world. I remember it so vividly, even though it’s been two long years. It feels like it happened just a few hours ago. Time has lost all meaning for me.
To give you an idea, people ask me how long it’s been since I last got a haircut, and I casually say, “Oh, just a few months.” In reality, it’s been well over two years. I’ve completely lost my grasp on time, and that hug was the catalyst for this strange and twisted time warp I’ve been trapped in.
Recently, a coworker patted me on the back to brush off some dirt, and I didn’t want them to stop. It’s bizarre how even the most mundane interactions with people, like a simple pat on the back, can transport me right back to that damn doorstep.
Nowadays, when I hug someone, I do it with an intensity that borders on obsession. I want them to remember those hugs, to feel what you made me feel, day in and day out.
If I had the power, I’d pay a king’s ransom to Picasso – and even more to whoever could resurrect him – just so we could go back in time to that precise moment when your arms enveloped me. You were wearing that black coat I’d never seen you in before. I’d want him to immortalize that moment in a painting and name it “Broken Heart.” Because at that moment, my heart wasn’t broken; it was whole, it was healed. But in the days, months, and years that followed – well, in my world, it all felt like mere minutes – it got shattered all over again.
I often wonder if anyone can even begin to fathom the turmoil I endure every single day, all because of a damn hug. It’s infuriating, really. I just wish I could breathe freely once more.