Questioning everything.

Yes, that's what writing is all about. It's full of what-ifs, a never ending string of them. What if the prince never heard of the princess? What if he wasn't her true love? What if the witch was the heroine after all? What if you and I are really going to fall apart?

Oh, I guess I hadn't mentioned it until now.

You. You're the only reason why I write. Why I have the courage to put the pen in paper. Why I believe that silly little verses of blundering words would solve everything. Why I think every page I fill will be a day that we will still be in love.

It's a feeling I know all too well. When I first met you, you are sweet, funny, understanding. Soon then, I began to write. About things all bright and sunny, happy and eccentric, lively and colorful. Everything was going well. We loved each other. We danced to the rhythm of our hearts. We never knew what sadness is all about. So, I put the pen in paper, and started to write. I write about our plans, our games, our deals, our promises. All those things I held on to, all those times I wished would slow down. We laughed the way we want to with no one ever judging us. The weight of the world was suddenly off our shoulders. It was easy, thoroughly easy, to put the pen in paper and start to write.

But then, I don't know what happened. The words turned sour. The energy is gone. Staleness dampened the sweetness. I knew I shouldn't push it too far, but I did. I put the pen in paper and start to write. I don't care anymore. I wrote to my heart's content. I spilled everything. About how disappointed I am at you. About how I was going to end this relationship. After all, to you, I was always a burden, a hindrance, a vexation. I was never your anything, right from the start. We aren't our anything, either. So, I put my pen in paper and I write.

What? What did I write?

I write about everything. Every little thing you said but never accomplished. Every word synonymous to 'fool'. I wrote it all down, until the tears wouldn't threaten to fall. I wrote and wrote and wrote, until words came to a blur and tears cloud my vision. Still, I wrote. From dusk to dawn, I wrote. Never stopped, because words are flowing out of a writer's wounded heart.

It's a feeling I know all too well. We all get our hearts broken from time to time. But, after I met you, I knew that this feeling would someday come. And like the fool I am, I believed you. I believed because you said otherwise. You said that we will be the happiest people in the world. That we would be eternal, like the stars and the moon. And that we will prove that love will save us both.

But it didn't. Not even once. So, I did what I could do. I write.

I am not writing because I hate you, or because I blame myself. No. I don't blame anybody for this. I am not writing to be able to curse you to the ground. I am not even writing because my heart is broken. I watch still, as my hand drew letters, formed words, constructed sentences and styled paragraphs. I knew the reason why I write.

I write because I'm letting you go.