Imagine one day, one person shows up in your world, and suddenly you found the meaning to all of the things that your friends and family would choose to describe you. Like the indifference that you always pretend to show, like every book that you've read which you never intended to show off, like the spot that is away from tourists' footsteps that you didn’t care to let anyone know. You realize what used to be the faintest idea of love is now materialized and solidified. At that moment when this person shows up, it was like all these minute details that you didn’t choose to but naturally ended up to keep to yourself will have another audience. Miraculously the appearance of one more human being would seem to complete the incomplete, and share the un-shared. What defines love? The agony of secretly admiration? The indefinite pretence and holding back? The heart-felt confession? Or the fuck-your-brains-out sex in bed? They could be, but not good enough. For the sake of such carefully-maneuvered words on a teenager's thoughts, Andrè really got the good win for redefining love as having someone who just simply can predict you, understand you, think what you think and remember what you remember, and most importantly, who is just you. In the end, it is like coming home, it is like finding light, it's like wondering where have you been all my life?
It's not okay if love does not flourish. But if it really doesn't, at least let me help you cut off the top of your soft-boiled egg, because what else can I do other than reminisce over the summer that both of us clearly remember. You are not you anymore, you are just part of me in my history that helped me found myself and made me who I am.
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