I’ve been writing about you today. Lately I’ve found what the most interesting moments for me to write are: while traveling. I abstract and concentrate amid the crowd’s noise, the engines, and the music… especially on the plane or on the train.
I don’t think you’ll read these paragraphs. You most likely won’t read any of my stories, neither the made up nor the real ones, because you just don’t read. You have enough with the scientific texts you go over daily, so it’s not like you’re going to value my lines in any way. That’s precisely why I feel free here, because I know you won’t witness by overflowing feelings time and again. Those that took you away from me.
I do believe, though that the existence of this story would mean just as little to you as my pain when you left.
I’ve been writing about you today, and the gorgeous brunette that was sitting right next to me on the place caressed my arm when she saw I couldn’t hold back the tears. I could only give her an ashamed grin back. Her hand provided me with ease and I finally breathed.
So, yes, today I’ve been writing about you and I left my despair and my hope in that plane together with your disinterest.