The moment I realized that I loved you, I, without hesitation, pulled out my heart and gave it to you. Although you hesitated, I insisted you have it. I was happy to give it to you; I thought you were the only one deserving of it.
My heart fit your chest perfectly, it suited you. My heart did a good job of letting you live again. Your heart was broken and my heart became its friend. A friend willing to exhaust itself to make sure you have enough of what you need.
I lived life without a heart, but I could still feel warmth, compassion, and love. My heart was very delighted to beat for you that it illuminated and stretched its capacity to accommodate me as well. Your happiness became the current that made my blood flow through my whole being.
I would be lying if I say I didn’t hope you would offer your heart to me too.
I mean, I did give mine to you without hesitation, and so I also thought maybe you would do the same.
But you never did.
Instead, you used my heart excessively, knowing that it will never get tired of you. My heart never complained and it never faltered to beat for you. My heart was happy; tired, unrequited, yet happy – genuinely happy.
Then you gave your heart to her. You did exactly what I did to you, only you did it for someone else and not to me. Then you roamed the earth with her, and eventually, broke my heart.
I watched you leave crumbs of my broken heart on the places you’ve been like you mean for me to follow you and her. And I did. I followed and picked up the pieces of my shattered heart.
I followed until not a single piece of my heart was with you anymore.
After I picked the last piece, I walked away. Then, for the last time looked back at you with tears in my eyes and thought, “I wish you loved me”. And I probably always will look back at that moment, still thinking of the same thing.
Thank you for giving me back my heart. Although not intact, at least I now have the pieces. That’s enough to give me hope that someday, someone can make it whole again.