I do not know why it happens, but every moment of happiness that I endure reminds me that it isn’t for me. That whatever joy or feelings it brings is meant for someone else. That I am an actor, and what I say or do is almost a script, as if I need to convince the world that I fit in with the rest of them. It isn’t everything, it isn’t opportunities or instances of fun. It’s only one thing really. It’s love. And I always run from it, regardless of how perfect it is. Always.

I couldn’t tell you what I’m looking for. I’m not really looking for anything actually. I would say I lost it, but I never really had it. I never really knew. It’s fascinating what our imaginations convince us of, the story line that’s spun from the little bits of what we receive. I am left wondering how much time can pass before it becomes more than just a quiet idea in my head. How much time can pass before they think it was not just some dream of mine, not some lost desperation and wild vision. How much time can pass before they realize that it was real. That it kept me up at night and kept me lost during the day and kept me from anyone else because there was only ever one for me and I ran away.

And now I’ll run from the rest. I’ll run from it all but I’ll do it in a way that shows the world something, that goodness still exists and that people still care about each other and that I can walk around in the sunshine but live in the darkness. That I can do all of that because you loved me a lifetime ago, and I let you and I loved you then and I love you now. If I can never share that with you, then so be it. I believe what is meant to happen will happen, and that the sun will rise in the morning even if it is concealed by the clouds. That is enough for me. It has to be.