I don't quite know if he had known this fact about me; the fact that I like writing. Mainly poetry, but I do sometimes indulge in simple pleasures, like what I'm doing now, writing out my feelings on a simple, cream colored page. I tore it out of my notebook, a new thing that I'd been gifted with, imported from some far off country. It is a hard paper, thick and steady, and it's quite unlike me. I don't know. This is pointless, really.

I'd thought him of my savior, that day. When you're an individual like me, meek, quiet, not necessarily shy but never given chances to be social, men like him are hard to come by. And while I have taken time to perfect myself — it gets incredibly boring — it must have not been enough, because he had loved another. That is fine with me, really, but I wish I could have been spared this heartbreak that spurned from a brief, temporary, one-sided love.

If I were a different type of person, I would be plotting now, deviously, creating a plan to win him back, taking revenge on him and the other woman, but alas. It can't be helped. This is just my temperament, this is simply who I am.

But that is not why I'm wasting the ink of this pen. It's not the reason. I'd just like to document my brief fairytale-like romance before I clear it out of my mind, for good. There were no hard times in our short romance, if it can even be called that. Whatever. There isn't much point to this.

Could I still be bitter, after all these nights I spent with him? With just one sentence, he turned everything around, taking 500 steps back, reversing everything. And while it wasn't that important to him, my feelings cannot be reversed. I don't know if I'll ever find a man like him, and had I thought myself incredibly blessed, to be able to catch the eye of such a man. But now, all the love I had for him, amounts to nothing. It is superficial now, silly now, because he is another woman's man.

I dread this next part, really. But I am only the fool, I suppose, because I'd known it all along, but just to keep him by me, for as long as I had left, I'd ignored it all. He is a peculiar man, strange as he is handsome, odd as he is smooth, but I had liked that. He'd swept me off my feet, quite literally, more metaphorically. But if I were not the girl he wanted, why did he lead me on? Has he no consideration in him? Not an ounce of concern for others? I suppose, at the end of the day, the only time I managed to see through him was our last meeting, when he cowered in his chair across from me, finally cracking. His eyes were downcast, and I, emboldened for once, spoke freely. He appeared genuinely remorseful. I am happy that I was able to pull that out of him, finally, some realness, something true.

Though it is a stupid, useless point in my book; she is able to do that effortlessly. He is himself around her, as insufferable as he may be. Around me, he seems another man. When he was around me, of course.

And while my dreams have been extinguished, snuffed out like a small fire, I don't feel as sad as I should, because the man I had fallen for was not Irie Naoki, but rather an extension of him. The version of him that he had brought out for me. Should that make me feel special? Retrieving a side of him that he'd otherwise kept hidden away? If I look at it from that perspective, I suppose, I would feel some happiness.

But I am not that distraught, to cling onto some form of reassurance. I think that he has deceived us all. Me especially. He has made a fool of me, really, stringing me along, sweeping me off of my feet, and then he sat, expecting me to accept defeat gracefully. Well. He didn't expect much of me at all, actually. He'd said so himself. I don't know which is a worse insult, him expecting me to forgive him, or him expecting nothing of me at all. He is just too confusing. I should be happy, having been spared a headache, but I do not know.

He is a rude person, peculiarly so. He behaves like a — and excuse my language, it's simply a lack of better words — lowborn, so to speak, as if he knows no manners at all. It's clear he's not, nothing of the sort, at all. His mother is rigid, his father is rarely seen, and his brother is merely a child. You see, I have done my research, private, on my own, like I always am.

He showed me this extension of him, and I fell for it, but I'm not feeling happy and appreciated as I would have, had I been in a state of delusion. My mind, while tainted with sadness, is clear now. I don't love him, I just miss him. It's easy to center my life around him, when he was new, different, and he reciprocated my feelings, to some false extent.

I did imagine a future with him, who wouldn't, with such a man, but alas.

It is what he reaped. It is fine. I do have some memories to take with me, but another woman has a lifetime of memories to create and I do not think that is fair. I don't deserve to be left behind, discarded, to be reduced to nothing more but a second choice. I do not have it in me to see things from his perspective. I will never see it from his perspective. I can understand that he loved her, that he loves her, but for me, it is not fair. If I were a different woman, reading this exact occurrence from a chapter book, I would think him so romantic, so utterly in love and torn with his emotions, but now that I am the woman left behind, I feel nothing but animosity towards him.

But my heart cannot stay unhappy at him any longer. I feel shame constantly. I do miss him. I do. He was such a gentlemen. At the elevator, he was a dear. He did save me, out of the blue. Even around the girl he loved, he prioritized me. Was he saving me, or was he covering for her blunder? Who know? He is impossible to decipher.

At the end of the day, this is his mess-up, not mine. So if it his fault, why am I the one suffering? I should conjure up a plan, a detailed plan, on how to ruin his life, how to make him as miserable as I, but I simply have no energy. I suppose he should consider himself lucky. Stringing me along, toying with me, answering my calls at night, only to confront me and say I am in love with another, after securing everything but the ring? I do not know anymore.

I miss him, desperately, sometimes, when I am more than alone, like I am now, bent over a long paper that seems to get longer and longer each minute. He comforted me, really, and I had entertained and exhausted the thought of him loving me as soon as I heard the girl say his name.

Still. There was nothing between us, at least from his part. I am simply let down by my own imagination, by my very own fabrications. I have broken my own heart, and now I am left to pick up the pieces, now I am expected to mend my own heart, all while being graceful. It is tormenting.

I don't know if I am simply viewed as a joke. I hope he recalls me someday, thinks me incredibly brave, as a strong woman, who carried her head high, and walked out on him.

Because that is what I did, and that is what I'll do every time I think of him, his rashness, his blunt nature, his rudeness. I'll walk out. Remaining a golden girl, forever, a graceful girl, forever, at least in his mind. If he ever thinks of me. I don't think he will. That is okay, I suppose. That is expected.

At least his woman had the sense, the moral compass to back away. I am sure she has been hurting for years. I am sure she is still hurting, and I am sure I am right. I should feel angry at her, but I cannot muster that. I am nothing like her, really, but she'd maintained kindness, towards me, even when I had come to whisk away the love of her life. I suppose she is a stronger individual than all of us, him included. He made himself a fool, really, at the end of the day. Who are you, exactly, to behave so freakishly, only to admit your faults at the very end, when it is far, far too late?

I must't be rude. I suppose we all have our oddities. I suppose we all have things that mean a lot to us. I suppose that to him, I simply wasn't her. It is his fault, but he cannot be blamed, I suppose, no matter how I'd like to blame him. I suppose that is my fault, being too understanding, to the point of forgiveness. It is detrimental, I know, being so aware of others. I should have heard the warning bells, ringing loud and clear that night, but I'd been in delirium, hearing wedding bells instead.

I do know that he is getting married soon. In about a week, my grandfather told me. I think he is more depressed than I. It has been a week or so, since I have been canceled on. It feels much longer. I have to spend more time clearing these memories out of my mind. Writing them down on paper doesn't do much, because I will just dwell on them more now, thinking of his hold on me, the glint in his eyes, his reliability, and his voice; things that will just make me more depressed.

It is fine. I will continue to watch from afar, I suppose, be it a miserable existence. I've long since left his life. I don't think he spares a single thought in his mind for me. I do know that his woman thinks of me quite frequently. I would have liked to have her as a friend, I think. I am not sure. She is with him, after all, and I can only pretend to not be bitter for so long.

It is rejuvenating, somewhat, being angry and angsty and just plain rude. I suppose this is his relief, being rough and mean. It is by no means a justification.

I can't help but to think. Had he loved me? At least at one point? Or was he simply too aloof to realize anything? Is he unfamiliar with love? I suppose his mother would know. Did he love me, at least temporarily? What hurts more, the possibility of him harboring the tiniest flame of feelings for me, or him never loving me at all? I don't know what to consider this.

He must have been unhappy, this entire time with me. It is a depressing thought. I think he must have been absentminded this entire time, thinking of her instead of being in the present with me. I enjoyed myself throughly, with him, but what is that enjoyment now? It is worth nothing now, after all, it is nothing but a stained memory. He is a magician, it seems, able to will his feelings away instantaneously, leaving me as the injured victim, plucked from the crowd at random.

Would he walk off stage, his back turned as the blinds closed, while I am still in the box, knives plunged in from every side?

He would, he has.

It must have been an epiphany for him, waking up one morning and realizing, I love another, or was a grueling, aching process for him? Seeing her with another man, was it as painful as it is for me? Did he feel how I do now? I hope he has. I hope he felt worse than I. It is selfish, but I am beyond caring. How was it for her? A breath of fresh air? Did her heart finally heal, having suffered by his hand for years? Did she even waste a second on me?

I know the answers already. It better to wallow like this. I won't be at their wedding. I hope to never see him again. I can only dream to never think of him again.