"You're hard to love."
One said. Two listened—too fastly, just as rapid as how Two's heartbeat turns into some ugly pieces of broken glass-like scatters.
Two was a believer—Two was a lover, so Two trusted that words too much even until One's back turned away and everything dissipated before Two's eyes.
And Two was also a hopeless romantic—except the fact that all the romance from Two's life had been taken since One went away. Two's hope rose once or twice, but One's words slapped Two again, reminded Two of the harsh wind that became Two's only company while believing that, indeed, Two was hard to love.
The whole universe, in fact, seemed like a proof to all the whining, creepy, dark voice inside of Two's minds. It was all about manifestation, and so, Two swallowed back all the butterflies Two has ever thought Two had. It did hurt Two's lungs, but it was better than letting them out and making Two, again, looked fragile over and over. Two had been broken too many time, so, what was the matter with being cold-hearted piece of rock that never wanted anything warm anymore?
And then, just like that, Two's heart became black—colors were never Two's thing, ain't it? Hopes were sunk, just as far as those words stabbed the back of Two's mind, back then and until now.
