"I like you, I really do." He said to himself, rehearsing what he would like to say to her one day. "You have the most infectious smile, the heartiest of laughs, the prettiest of faces. You're as close to perfection as perfection itself." He smiled at how cheesy the sentence was. Then his expression turned sad. "Perhaps," he thought, "That is the problem. She wouldn't understand the humour behind that sentence. I'm not understood-I'm different, somebody else. I can't make people laugh. I have no special qualities. Why would anybody like me?" He sighed, and started doing whatever menial work he could find.
Several days passed. The same thought continued to sadden him. He couldn't tell her, he was too afraid. He couldn't tell anyone else either, he did not like being judged, nor teased.
More time. His feelings elevated on each interaction with her. He couldn't contain it anymore. He had to tell it to someone. Thus, he switched on his computer, went to a place where he could write, and wrote his story. There was some difference between fiction and non-fiction though, the former ended on a good note, where they lived happily ever after.
The non-fictional self knows, she'll never be his, yet he writes the happy ending, hoping she would be.
Several days passed. The same thought continued to sadden him. He couldn't tell her, he was too afraid. He couldn't tell anyone else either, he did not like being judged, nor teased.
More time. His feelings elevated on each interaction with her. He couldn't contain it anymore. He had to tell it to someone. Thus, he switched on his computer, went to a place where he could write, and wrote his story. There was some difference between fiction and non-fiction though, the former ended on a good note, where they lived happily ever after.
The non-fictional self knows, she'll never be his, yet he writes the happy ending, hoping she would be.
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