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Tragedy of Being

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“I love you.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other for a moment, letting it sink beneath their skin and into their hearts.

“I don’t feel that way about you,” he says after a moment.

She tilts her head quizzically. “I never thought you did.”

They both know the lie.

“You shouldn’t.”

“You can’t stop me.”

Reality has never mattered to either of them, but right now, all they want is to bask the realness of their feelings, caught amongst the ghosts and imaginations around them.


He can’t love. Not her, not anyone. She knows it better than he ever will.

She won’t love anyone else. Ever. He knows that and wishes things were different.

This is how all their conversations go. Fragmented thoughts, broken memories, truth buried under lies.

The day they met was much the same.


She took one look at him, blinked that slow, unnatural blink she had, and said “I loved you.”

He stared at her, a lifetime of memories he never wanted flooding his head, and replied “I knew.”


She was satisfied with that. She died never telling him, before. She has rectified that mistake, now.

He hated it. When he died, the one relief he had was the possibility of being wrong. He can’t go back to that willful ignorance anymore.


Destiny has put them on the same earth again, brought their paths together, entwined their lives and deaths too tightly to unravel. It seems that history is only doomed to repeat itself.