Lost-

Lost. Losing. Khona. What do all these words even mean? Usually, I write my pieces with both feeling and intent, to give shape to my emotions. But this time, it’s just my feelings, scattered and raw. No intent, no purpose. Just me and the weight of what I’ve lost.

What I feared most came true. I lost to myself. And in the process, I gained something worse: a fear of losing anything else. Who would’ve thought that, in trying so hard to hold on to him, I would lose the real me? My love for him hasn’t faded, not by even a fraction of a percent. But sometimes, I catch myself asking: Why did I even love him? Was it because he simply talked to me? Was I so starved for love that the bare minimum felt like everything?

He never reciprocated my efforts, my feelings. And now, I’ve fallen so far in my own eyes that I can’t love myself anymore. I can’t love him, either. Yes, it will hurt more than dying if I ever speak to him again. But somewhere along the way, I realized the truth: maybe I was never enough. Maybe I was always too much.

Even now, as I write this, my eyes brim with tears - tears I’ve convinced myself are useless. They tell me that I was just... ugly. Not in appearance, but in the way I loved too easily, in the way I gave too much to someone who never asked for it.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of being lost, not losing someone else, but losing yourself. 

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