I fell in love with a writer once. It was so easy to slide right into those words and make them mine. To pretend that sometimes they were words written just for me.
They were about other people.
I knew it. But I WANTED them to be about me. I was desperate to hear those words of desire and want and love said to me.
So I made them mine.
I pretended that sometimes he slipped hidden messages in, here and there, knowing I’d find them like buried treasure. Then I started doing the same thing myself. I spoke in code. I wanted him to see my messages of love too.
He had no fucking clue.
See, I was romancing myself. I had clothed him in my delusions and wishful thinking. In reality, I was another faceless name. Another adoring fan.
I’m telling myself right now, and you are my witness to remind me: I am nothing to him. I’m not an inspiration. I’m not a future dream. I am not a secret lover. I am but a mere reader who got easily carried away. I am a fool who fell in love.
(In all honesty, it’s a testament of his powerful creative aura. To his skillful writing. To be able to sway hearts in need. I don’t deny that.)
So, yeah, I fell in love with a writer. I just wish it had been the other way around.
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