Sometimes, she cried in the silence of the night; unseen and unheard, her tears fell: a witness to the way her heart bled.
Sometimes, she cried so very silently, that no tears came. But her heart burned and even died, just to be reborn the next minute to do its duty: after all, heart had its duties too.
Sometimes, she cried, just a little to show him how much it hurt or how much she loved: she wanted him to know that not all was rainbows and sunshine. But they were never fully shown to him, because she loved him enough to know that if she cried the way she did, it would kill him.
Sometimes, her heart didn't cry, but raged with the flames of her misery and anger and then got itself burnt with the embers of her own impotence. After all, she gave in when she should have fought more, she gave up when she should have explained, but she never did: not because she thought it was worthless, but because the nebulous peace that existed was far more important than her rage.
Sometimes, the tears filled her throat, enough to hurt her. But she swallowed it along with some water and went to bed, to forget about whatever was hurting and instead hoping that everything would be fine tomorrow.
He never knew, and probably never will: as to how important she considered her life with him was, her love for him was, that she put the others she loved in a lower pedestal. He would never know the pain of her heart breaking and making itself whole again just for his sake. He would never know how she hoped and prayed that those others whom she loved would be fine one day, so that she can forgive herself for taking his side.
Sometimes, she cried so very silently, that no tears came. But her heart burned and even died, just to be reborn the next minute to do its duty: after all, heart had its duties too.
Sometimes, she cried, just a little to show him how much it hurt or how much she loved: she wanted him to know that not all was rainbows and sunshine. But they were never fully shown to him, because she loved him enough to know that if she cried the way she did, it would kill him.
Sometimes, her heart didn't cry, but raged with the flames of her misery and anger and then got itself burnt with the embers of her own impotence. After all, she gave in when she should have fought more, she gave up when she should have explained, but she never did: not because she thought it was worthless, but because the nebulous peace that existed was far more important than her rage.
Sometimes, the tears filled her throat, enough to hurt her. But she swallowed it along with some water and went to bed, to forget about whatever was hurting and instead hoping that everything would be fine tomorrow.
He never knew, and probably never will: as to how important she considered her life with him was, her love for him was, that she put the others she loved in a lower pedestal. He would never know the pain of her heart breaking and making itself whole again just for his sake. He would never know how she hoped and prayed that those others whom she loved would be fine one day, so that she can forgive herself for taking his side.
I did not know you had gotten into fiction..I must start reading more! :)
ReplyDeleteHa ha, I am actually writing whatever strikes my fancy...fiction, thoughts...the recent ones have been fiction, yes. :-)
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