arindalee

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“We kissed!” I exclaimed, my heart dancing with excitement. “I can’t be partners with a guy I’ve kissed—kiss, kiss, kiss!” I teased, the words tumbling out like playful confetti.

His hand swiftly covered my mouth, and his ears flushed crimson. “Stop it! Aren’t you embarrassed?” he mumbled, his touch both gentle and urgent.

“You’re embarrassed too, right?” I persisted, a mischievous glint in my eyes. “See? You shouldn’t have crossed that line with a partner,” I chided, playfully tapping his shoulder.

He seized my hand, his grip firm yet oddly electrifying. “Stop hitting me,” he whispered, his voice tinged with excitement. “Take responsibility for seducing me.”

I scoffed, my heart fluttering. “Whatever. I don’t owe you anything.” But then he said those unexpected words, “Yes, you do. You have my heart.”

Surprised, I stammered, “I never asked for it.”

“You stole it,” he declared, confidence radiating from his gaze.

I shuddered, caught off guard. “What the heck. How cringe,” I muttered, trying to regain my composure. “Do you really like me? Why? Give me three reasons.”

His response was both audacious and endearing. “One, you’re cool. Two, you’re a better person than I am. And three, I want to go out with someone better than me.”

I couldn’t help but be amazed. “What an ambitious guy.”

He leaned in, his eyes narrowing playfully. “I have to be greedy when it comes to girls,” he said, a pretentious smile curving his lips.

I put lip balm onto my lips “Wow this is incredible. Great, very moisturizing. Moist.” I playfully rubbed my lips, a secret smile curving them.

Then, with newfound confidence, I stepped out to meet him.

As our eyes locked, embarrassment tinged my cheeks. I held my hand against my flushed skin. His smile was sweet, mischievous. “Makeup?” he teased. “To look pretty for me? To look feminine?”

“No!” I retorted, my knuckles grazing his forehead in mock annoyance. “My friend gifted it to me. I'm wearing it because I have—” Before I could finish, he leaned in and kissed my left cheek.

Time froze. My blush deepened, matching the rosy hue of my skin. “You expected this?” he whispered, his breath warm against my face. I simply gazed at him, “What is it?” His wonder.

“This side is also expecting something,” I touched my right cheek, my heart fluttering like a captured butterfly.

His smile widened, and he drew closer. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. “Are you addicted?” he teased once more.

I got annoyed and pushed him hard. “You pretend to be innocent but you come out and ask for it. You don't make small talk,” he explained quickly.

“You need a hard kick, don't you?” I stared at him “Come here. I will kill you. Come here quickly” I started chasing him. Suddenly, he pulled me into an embrace, and the world spun. “Come here,” he whispered.

And in that stolen second, as our hearts beat in sync, I realized that sometimes, the most beautiful blush isn't on our skin—it's the anticipation of a kiss yet to come.”

Amidst the whirlwind of our individual lives, we carved out a pocket of time—a sanctuary where our souls could breathe.

He stepped toward me, arms open wide, and whispered, “Let's recharge. We both need to recharge.” His embrace enveloped me, pulling me closer as if seeking solace in shared warmth.

“Tighter,” he murmured, and I melted into the cocoon of his presence. The world outside faded, leaving only the rhythm of our hearts.

“I'm sorry,” I confessed, my breath mingling with his. “Wait. That disconnection—it's like we're running on low battery. We need to recharge. No more distractions.” His voice, soothing as a lullaby, echoed in my ears.

“Charged up to 20%,” he declared, and our hug tightened. The weight of existence lifted, replaced by the promise of renewal.

“30%,” I whispered, my fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“31%,” he echoed, his heartbeat syncing with mine.

“35%,” I breathed, and the world seemed to pause, caught in the delicate balance of our shared energy.

“35.1%,” he teased, and I laughed—a melody that danced between us.

“Aren't decimal points a bit too much?” I teased back, my eyes meeting his. His gaze held galaxies, and I surrendered to the gravity of our connection.

In that charged moment, we weren't just two souls seeking refuge; we were celestial bodies aligning, drawing strength from each other. As our laughter echoed through the universe, I realized that sometimes, recharging isn't about plugging into an outlet—it's about finding someone who sparks your spirit.

On that sun-kissed afternoon, we stood face to face upon the ancient bridge, its timeworn stones echoing our unspoken words. The river flowed gently beneath us, a silent witness to our fragile hearts.

“Do you pity me?” My voice trembled, eyes brimming with vulnerability. “Is that why you date me?”

His gaze hardened, frustration etching lines upon his brow. “Enough,” he snapped. “I’m going to get mad.”

But I couldn’t relent. “Pull yourself together,” I implored. “We can’t do this. Let’s just… let’s just pull ourselves together!”

His reply was a whisper carried away by the breeze. “I can’t do that,” he confessed, eyes shadowed with sorrow. “I can’t do that without you.”

“Why didn’t you think about me?” He demanded, his anger rising. “What about my feelings? Do I pity you?”

His voice dropped a fragile thread. “No!” he confessed. “I just love you. I just love you!.”

The room hung heavy with unspoken farewells. Our hands clung to each other, as if desperate to defy the inevitable. My eyes remained shut, shielding me from the truth I was about to utter.

“Let’s just end it,” I whispered, the words a blade against my heart.

His gaze bore into mine, a silent plea. “Never,” he replied, his voice a fragile thread. “Never say those words.”

And then, with the tenderness of a fragile bloom, I confessed my truth. “Do you know why I like you? Because you are kind. Keep living well,” I implored. “Don't ruin yourself because of me.”

His eyes, pools of sorrow, held mine captive. “If you really think about this for me,” he murmured, “Then open your eyes. Say it while looking at me.”

But I couldn’t. To meet his gaze was to surrender—to melt into the warmth of his love, to lose myself in the depths of his soul.

“I can’t,” I admitted, my voice a fragile echo.

He released my hand, rising from our shared space. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, and with that, he stepped away, leaving me alone in the fading light.

Tears welled, but I held them back, my eyelids a sanctuary for unspoken regrets. The room whispered our secrets, and the wind outside carried fragments of our fractured hearts. In that quiet, solitary moment, I wondered if love was ever meant to be easy—if endings were merely beginnings in disguise.

In the dimly lit bar, our souls collided—a symphony of missed notes and unspoken truths. We sat side by side, our gazes drawn to the window, where the city's heartbeat pulsed beyond the glass.

And then, like a fragile whisper, he shattered the quiet. “Let's break up,” he murmured, the words hanging in the air like dew-kissed petals. My heart stuttered, caught between anticipation and dread.

“What did you say?” I asked, my voice swallowed by the cacophony around us. I turned to him, seeking refuge in his eyes.

“Let's break up,” he repeated, louder this time. The words I secretly yearned for—the ones that would set us both free—felt like shards of glass against my skin. Painful, yet inevitable.

But then, sincerity danced in his gaze. “I really like you”  he confessed, his smile a fragile bridge between us. It was a bittersweet revelation—the kind that leaves echoes in empty rooms and unanswered questions in the night.

I mirrored his smile, my fragile mask. “Me too, I am very grateful” I whispered. For the stolen moments, the shared laughter, and the way our hearts had brushed against each other like whispered secrets.

In that crowded bar, we unraveled—a tapestry of beginnings and endings. And as we parted ways, I carried the weight of our unspoken love—the beauty of what could have been, and the ache of what was.

In the heart of a bustling city, I ran through sterile hospital corridors. The news had reached me— news that made your chest tighten and made you jump at the person who was occupying your thoughts, even when you wished that person didn't.

His room was a serene haven, bathed in the pale glow of fluorescent lights. And there he was, leaning against the patient's bed, tracing the memories with his eyes.

The moment he sensed my presence, he turned around, and our gazes collided. His expression is a canvas of emotions—regret, longing, and something unsaid.

“I told you not to get hurt,” I scolded, my anger covering my worry. He shifted and lowered his legs, and the vulnerability in his eyes pierced me.

“Why do you have to worry me?” I raised my voice, frustration bubbling up. His response was a cool breeze—cold and distant. “Do not worry about me. Do not care about me.”

My anger flared. “What did you do until your knee got worse? Until you had to be hospitalized?” My words caused a storm of worry and confusion.

His voice, when heard, sounded fragile. “I didn't even know I was hurt, because you weren't there.” His confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. “Not being with you hurts more than anything. Because...” He stuttered, silence swallowing his unfinished confession.

And then, as if the universe had conspired to mend our fractured souls, he rose. His steps were deliberate, closing the distance between us. His arms enveloped me—a sanctuary of warmth and memories. Tears spilled, and I buried my face in his shoulder, finding solace in the familiar contours of his body.

This shoulder, once distant, now holds my pain. Our hug was a silent plea—a bridge across time and pain. And as we hugged, I realized that sometimes, love is a gallery of whispers, etched in our hearts long after the color fades.

The grass whispered secrets beneath our feet, and the air held the promise of something magical.

I turned to look at him, my heart fluttering like a thousand delicate wings. “I like you a lot,” I confessed, my voice soft as the breeze.

His eyes, deep pools of warmth, met mine. “I like you more,” he murmured, pulling me into an embrace that felt like coming home. His touch was gentle, yet it ignited a wildfire within me—a sweet ache of longing and possibility.

“What is it? Did you have a bad dream?” his voice, a soothing balm, reached me through the darkness.

I merely shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks. His arms enveloped me, a sanctuary of warmth and reassurance. “It's okay. Everything's okay. It's okay” he whispered, as if repetition could mend the fractures within me.

I released myself from his embrace, our eyes locking in a silent exchange. “Thank you for loving me” I murmured.

His gaze softened, teardrops mirroring my own. He held me once more, his touch tender against my hair.

I ended up saying thank you again

What if my thank you becomes a burden to you as well?

What if it eventually becomes a painful memory for you?

The thought of it made me afraid, and so I cried again.

People are scared of thunder and lighting but strangely I find them calming. I am not unhappy but I am not happy either. I wouldn’t care if the world ended now.