The only thing they can be,is the most familiar strangers ♥ .

Her half world was imaginary. She lived in stories and tales, sung with characters, held their hands and laughed with them.
She’d sit all alone and read and cry.

Until one day he passed by and their eyes smiled.
The stupid Cupid moved his magic , shot the arrow and went away looking for his next prey.

Now they would read together not under the same tree but distance away.

He was a mystery who never spoke his mind but fell in love with her little chaos inside.

“Let’s be fictional,” she said.
His eyes smiled and said yes.
Ah, eyes could really talk, who knew by now?

On page ten, they fell in love.
Oh, they were, already, but irrevocably this time.
Page forty-one, they kissed.
Page eighty-seven, they danced in rain.
Page one-hundred and fifty, they shared the warmth on a winter night.
Page two-hundred and twelve, it became madness. The happy-in-love-can’t-live-apart-madness.

Oh, who wanted this to end?

But all books do end.
Every book has a last page. Last sentence. Last word. Last letter.

And so came page three-hundred and fifteen, where thr was the last sentence, word, letter and the full stop.
In life thr comes a time when you have to choose between turning the page and closing the book.

He had to go now.

Where?
We don’t know.

Why?
Nobody would ask.

With whom?
Can’t say.

For how long?
Forever, perhaps.

Why did she let him go?
We don’t know.

And so he was gone.
What a devil you’re, Cupid.

Who's still waiting?
We don't know.

It was madness again.
Not the happy-in-love-madness but a sickening-melancholy-dejection-miserable-sorrowful-madness.

She’d still sit there, knowing he’d never come but still waiting for him to pass by.

She picked up the pen now, began writing, scribbled.
The blue ink and white sheets heard it all and she’d tell them everyday,

“It takes madness to fall in love and it takes greater madness to fall out of it.”