I would look at this with sad delight that every time I see journal notebooks I would think of you. Your kind and witty correspondence with me, how you got me all confused with my own feelings, I suppose emotions have a way of disrupting an individual’s rationality. It’s quite heartbreaking and relieving to know that my limerent feeling is rendered unrequited. It paved way for clarification whether what I feel for you is really love, and I conclude that it isn’t―it’s just limerence. What got me all so confused is that this is the first time I experienced this feeling, that is, of incredible attachment. The fact that I disclosed so much to you about myself more than the people closest to me and you tolerating and responding with sincerity got me so wrapped up with the idea that you like me too. Before this clearer conclusion I even wrote you a “love letter” or a pseudo love letter, and of course I would never really send it to you out of this social phobia. So here it is:

My love for you began as a dispassionate curiosity, I subconsciously warned myself of detrimental consequences it would do me but somehow I thought you wouldn’t be as fascinating as you are to me now. There are so many things I want to write you that I’m afraid that if I hastily start with anything, it might become a hodge podge of irrelevant thoughts. The problem with me is that I’m always interested in almost anyone but nothing holds my attention for a very long time. But when both my interest and attention is held captive, I know I’ll always end up heartbroken. For this reason, I have always tried to only admire historical or fictional characters.

To love someone from afar has always been the best love I can give. It is both selfish and selfless―you see, to give love is to lose love. I believe to not have what you love makes you seek for it harder, therefore it is tragic yet romantic. I’m always weary that once I seize my dreams, I’d jolt out of that beautiful nightmare. I’m afraid you might just be another illusion realized. I fear I would fall out of that enchantment and be disillusioned. Perhaps, I like to torment myself with this deprivation. I’m not being completely honest with this confessional letter, maybe I’m protecting my and your identity. I keep mixing up ideas, that you, as the subject, are being fictionalized. It is possibly a symptom of limerence to piece out ideas of perfection, that I only ever liked the idea of you and not really you. Or is it me feeling the need to conjure up different personalities as the writer of this letter. But NO, everything I have written are all true based on how I feel. Is this a love-letter or a letter of friendship? Do I love you romantically or do I want us to be the best of friends? Why am I even drawn into you, you’re an impossible dream in an impossible reality.

I must be very miserable. . . . to be fixated on the idea, that you might secretly like me. Now I see the complexity brought by not asking. I hope this feelings I have for you is just an idea I can surpass eventually. So when that happens, I become happy again. I wish to never speak with you again. It’s good enough to know I left a good memory to you, I can’t say the same thing about you.


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