My obsession comes from within, as chains holding me down to her. We made a promise to each other that as long as we never attached our feelings to it, we would be okay.
“But, I have come to love you,” he told her that night. She looked at him with pity in her eyes and he knew he had made a mistake.
They touched, rubbed hands; sweaty and dry hands that went slick on each other. They slept so close to each other that they could feel each other’s body parts. He loved it; to touch and feel between her thighs, to disturb the other and hear her beg or see her run away but come back later. She loved it. She’d go through his phone like she was looking for his malpractices and tease him about other girls. He still wondered how if she did all that, she’d not want him to love her. Wave to him and ask him, “How are you?” even when she saw him and knew how he was. He usually replies, “I am how you are.”
She was beautiful and he saw through her. Tickling his underarm but he never laughed. It was she that made him smile and her futile attempt at it, gentle in body but resilient in spirit. To zip down her dress, as they undressed each other, fight for their reflection in the mirror when they wear their clothes back. He’ll deflate her ego and show her that he yet needed her. To feel sensations her hands wrecked on him. To feel pain from firm hands on flesh and become lost as she sensually bit his lip. As they fought to retrieve his pervert nail and she climbed on him.
To stroll out in drizzling rains and steal beauty from it and the come back to sleep on their sides, their faces facing each other with their lips joined. Slowly nibbling on her lip like it’ll take the whole of time to have his fill of the feeling it gave him. Sleeping on their hearts with their hands intertwined. To wake up alone, and desperately search for her.
He was dreaming. I am obsessed. Is it love or an obsession? These chains of love and obsession bind me to her no matter how. He was dreaming. I am obsessed. Is it love or an obsession? These chains of love and obsession bind him to her no matter how he tries to run away.
He ran after her, turning her face sharply to his and he asked one last time, “Do you want to tell me that you did all that for me and did not harbour any feeling for me?”
He saw that she was crying, and it hurt him that he was the reason for that but he had to pour out his frustrations, it seemed like she had no heart. She just kept crying and mumbling something he could not hear, but he was not listening. All he wanted was to hear that she loved him back. It was then she screamed at him. Shouting at him that she was pregnant, telling him not that she didn’t love him but that she didn’t know how to tell him.
“Is it mine?” he asked her. This time he heard her the first time she said it and it felt like his heart stopped working.
“It is not yours,” she said.
He turned his back and began the long trek back home, his head bent low as she stood on the road looking at him with tears running down her face.
It was a whisper, from her crying heart. “I love you, I’m sorry.”
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