As I read through the history in which we wrote, I grow weary and frail.
The laughs, the cries, the conversations and the humbleness towards one another near the end, it makes me want to choose the other decision, rather than this one.
There’s a sense of remorse, and oddly enough, a sense of serenity.
I’m not glad it did happen, nor am I disappointed that it didn’t.
I’m just somewhere in the middle.
Where I always am.
Where I am never able to decide on what I want.
And when I do, I always look back.
I always look into what I have done and wonder that what I chose would have been better than the other.
More often than not, if I had a chance to change decisions, I would.
But for this type of thing I, sadly, cannot.
I still long for you, and if I stop this habit like I promised this certain person that I did, I hope I stop thinking of you.
For now, please be safe.
I hope to get an update about your life soon.
But how likely would that happen?
Our consistency of not caring about each other at this very moment is impeccable.