Love is a strange thing. It's blind— or at least, it certainly was for you. So blind, you looked past the pointless number that was his age. Quitting due to strange judgemental looks wasn't an issue either. And so was losing contact with your friends.

Fresh from university; you were youthful, inexperienced, passionate.. and Gil was 32.

You denied feeling isolated. You were surrounded by him. You lived and basked in him. Like a rose who blooms only for him.

Perhaps that's why he liked you. You ignited a passion he's lost.

But he's 42 now— you've given him a good 10 years of your life. You're getting older too. At 32, you have nothing new to give— and that once consuming, reckless fire has dulled into an aching recollection of what once was.

Still, you were happy. This is life, you thought. Sparks die and now you get to spend the rest of your lives as a dull, old couple— together.

.. until he cheated.

With someone that was once your age.

Love is a strange thing. You have never known it soft. To you, love is strangling, suffocating. To love is to dig your nails into somebody as they're ripped away— because to leave scars is proof you fought. You imagined love to be something you fight for.

But you have no more fight in you.

——

“Hello.” Rome gently taps the counter, an air of maturity to him despite his age.

“I'd like a rose bouquet, please.” His tone, low and polite.

He's here nearly everyday now.

He insists on walking you home tonight too— holding an umbrella over your head as he follows closely from behind. Your footsteps echo along with the pitter-patter of rain.

You've never walked ahead of anyone before, it was always you behind Gil.

You don't know why he's doing this— no.. that's a lie. You do know:

“I like you.” Rome confessed once, leaning over the counter to murmur into your ear.

His eyes shined and he looked like a predator cornering prey— but in reality, you know who the real predator is.

Draw the line. He's 24. This is wrong. You can't have him make the same mistake you did.