Everybody has a time in their lives when they try to figure out who they are; the reason they keep breathing, the drive behind every blink. Some of us see who we are at early stages and others become intimidated. And why wouldn’t they be? you’re cold and sometimes ruthless and the most the most heartbreaking things make you smile. Ten times a day you check if he still loves you and even though there is no evidence of faded desires, you doubt that you have the truth. He has met you. He knows what you look like, he knows your moods but he doesn’t know you, really. You have a novel in your soul that could fill the grandest libraries. Each day, a page and each tragedy, a chapter. But the spine of this book is weak and the pages are untouched. For no one has ever dared to venture into your novel. Or perhaps they never cared to. But you can’t blame him, you can’t blame them. You keep your novel locked, like a diary beneath the bed. You keep this booked locked, but you secretly cry for someone to open it. But once again, the spine gets weak and the pages, dusty. The things you’ve told some, the things he’s never asked about. Your emotions are assumed but never confirmed and your actions are feared. All you want is for him to see you, to ask you. Does he see you? Does he see what has moulded you? Does he understand? Perhaps you were made for solitude and love was meant to destroy you. Maybe you love too much, and maybe love will kill you.