Lately, I've been on a rollercoaster of emotions. This juncture of my life is sort of like a crossroads but with a fuckload of fog obscuring every possible path.

The painful truth of an ideal is that you might never attain it. That pain is exquisite; you teeter between knowing that it is unrealistic and wanting it. You acknowledge its existence but push it back into the recesses of your mind.

When you end up falling for someone you never expected to, a different Pandora's box is unlocked. There is a new kind of pain—would your love be reciprocated? Would that be enough? Or would you still yearn longingly for that ideal your mind had crafted and weaved all that time ago?

What if you meet that ideal one day?

What would you do?

I think I've reached that point in my life where I know what I want, but I don't know if you can give it to me.

It makes me cry whenever I think about it, because I want you to be able to.

This pain is so consuming—I just want to drown in it.

It only hurts like this because I love you so much.
 

We were sitting in front of your computer. I had forced you to take some sort of personality test which had a hundred questions, and you were grumbling. Yet, you answered as I read the questions out to you.

"Are you confident, or patient?" I asked.

"Patient," you replied, without missing a beat. "Definitely patient. I do all the waiting for you."

I just grinned at that—because it is true—and clicked the answer.

"Oh, by the way," you suddenly interjected. "I have a present for you."

"Really?" I questioned. It isn't like you to buy something for me if you don't know whether I would absolutely love it. And lately, everything I want is extremely expensive.

You reached over me to pull the drawer out. Taking something out of a small plastic bag, you handed it to me nonchalantly.

It was a sheet of Mamegoma stickers.

And I fell in love with you all over again.