you're like a book.

a book for him, a book meant for him. with soft fragile pages, a little rough at some parts, at some edges. some bumps here and there, crook at one side, smooth at this side. imperfect, impossible.

but he read it anyways.

after all, it was still undeniably soft, comforting, warm. scenarios, glimpses that he would never forget. him at your middle page where everything became so new, so perfect. a sealing promise that it's you, it's him. the male lead and female lead sharing named beaded bracelets.

read it. put some bookmark on it, on where his favorite lines lie, those huge and tiny scenarios. bombs, marshmallows, and flush. flashing vivid pictures that then lead to a conclusion that also made you like a ribbon between those pages.

silk is what it was made. and like silk, you seeped in between, brittling the pages with tear-blurred words fogging his eyes as he waits there at the bus stop, taking him back to the night we met.

he's almost late and ends up leaving crumpled, ripped pages. and sitting across from you, his knees bumping to yours, cake between our small table, candles on them, lightening up this birthday blues of yours even just a bit. and he couldn't help but to just tear up.

all because you're okay. you're still here.