I've always thought of you as quixotic—a true romantic.
In your eyes, all the world is beautiful and agreeable, and no one, not even I, can be truly and undeniably evil, so much so that you'd be willing to go through miles and miles of troubles and heartaches just to prove this point.
I'm not saying that it's a crime, though. And perhaps, you being like that is actually a big blessing for me. Most of the time, after all, you're idealistic enough for all of us—for all your friends.
You hope enough for the both of us.
I've always asked myself when I started liking you, and I always thought that I had the answer. I always thought it had been that day I showed you who I was, what I could truly be.
Now, whenever I look back, I start to doubt. There is one thing I became sure of, though. On that fateful day, I had already been too far gone in liking you.
But I didn't know how to show it.
I—always a shadow in my brothers' presence, always the son who dared not hope for more, always the son who never knew affection—did not know how to deal with someone like you.
Somehow, I'm happy that my unpredictability hasn't thwarted that hope in you.
Every time I hear and see you giving it your best, hoping for the best, I can't help but smile, even for a moment. Every time you look at me, determined not to let me get to you, I feel myself growing with happiness, and I, myself, begin to know hope.
Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Maybe there's a chance I'd be able to stay with my music. Maybe there will come a time I'd be free of my grandmother. Maybe soon I'll be able to see you again.
Maybe someday I'll be able to live the way I want to.
And maybe then you'll be there to share my life with me.