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I knew that as much as I loved him, at some point, we had to let eachother go. I could see it in the way he glanced at me, yet gazed at her as if it were the first time he had seen the stars in the galaxy so clearly. And so clearly did I see the connection of my petite life to the story I had just finished.

I was also jealous of the love that poured from his skin so gentle, yet ferociously when she entered the room, or even when he heard her voice through the phone. And, too, had I, at first, been so excited for us to be together. As though our little world would be complete. But now, I loathed her as much as I wished to love her with all my heart. And I knew that I must stop.

I knew, well before, that it would come. I could tell after that climatic summer. When it felt as though the world belonged to us and that the little, pale yellow room was just enough for us and our ecstatsy. I knew because the following years, I longed again for that innocence, for our beginning to test our limits and know eachother yet want to hold back because we felt that it was wrong what was happening. But it felt so right, as love always does. But sure enough, as I said, our love did slowly die. He knew it as well as I did, and even spoke of it. But I hated to see the hurt in his eye. I couldn't bear the thought. So I held it out; even now, I stretch it like a rubberband, ready for it to snap back with an electric, red pain on my bruised hands. Then again, I knew that I was not one to stay so true. To dedicate my life to someone when it seemed as though I had centuries to go. The fact that I already expressed love for others, and was so fascinated by those who I didn't know who had, supposedly, already come to love me. I even knew that the love was not permanent, and I still did not care. It was that different taste, glimpse of love that I favored. And I dreamed of the day I knew was to come when I would enter my death and my awakening simultaneously to surrender my life to many others while taking a few on the way. I was ready.