Two Fridays ago, you stopped me on my way to work.
You looked at me with eyes that seemed genuine.
You confessed how long you had watched and admired me,
how much you had wished for me to be yours.

We rescheduled “a meeting,” or maybe a disguised date.
You brought flowers to my gate and gently opened the car door for me to come in.
You took me to the fancy restaurant I always wanted.

You locked my hands into yours, as though fate had decided that it was meant to be.
You stared into my eyes while you spoke.
You spoke so eloquently, just the way I like it.
Your perfume complemented your gentleness.
Everything was perfect, you were perfect.

You told me I was the only one for you,
how you wouldn’t breathe without me,
and how life wouldn’t make sense without me in it.

I believed every truth you said.
Truth?
Maybe lies coated so much with layers that felt like truth.

After that day, I reminisced on everything that happened,
and I was positive we were meant for each other.
I replayed the moment I said yes to you over and over again in my head,
and it felt like the best decision I had ever made.

Best or worst, I was yet to find out.

One week passed, and I was locked up in your embrace.
I gave you my all, in the way I knew how.
You deserve it, I constantly assured myself.

A week later, I couldn’t reach you.
I called countless times and didn’t get a response.
I was worried. I was supposed to be.

Three days later, I got a text.
It wasn’t much.
Just two sentences, but it was enough to ruin my day
and the next six months of my life.