hello friend
nostalgia. a sense of — I could’ve been, a sense of — I won’t ever be. a reminder of sorts I suppose. preferably someone saner than Sanggil, someone calmer and less..angry. rather than being a prominent figure, s/he resembles more of the wind (A quiet hiss, a gentle murmur, a soft I-exist-still) and the low cooing of leaves. the sort of memory that’d be sweetly tucked into a treasurechest, lost in the back of a cluttered mind — a breath of forgotten air. (Why didn’t you kill it? because I hesitated.) a consistency, maybe. probably. this person and Sanggil’s relationship would go farther into depth than can possibly be explained; perhaps they’re both much too callous to ever dare admit the extent of which they actually care for each other but the contradictory tidbits that make up each detail (They understand each other, and know each other — but they know nothing at all.) (a hollow mass of empty matter) exhumes an air of fondness.

the circumstances under which they meet would avoid the intensity of passion and hatred and all that emotional nonsense. it’d be more of a mutual respect for one another’s mind, an acknowledgment of intelligence and intellect that far surpasses all else. their conversations range like the galaxies — from the billion nebulae of the universe to the brainfreeze lingering at the roofs of their mouths after a bite of ice-cream. they are hyphens connecting words that don’t belong to each other, the spaces that don’t exist (Yet they do — millions and millions of atoms smudged into a single letter), and everything in between.

they care for each other. love, if I dare tiptoe round the borders. but they’re never close enough to touch.