51: Monologue

They call it a relationship,

as if love were a contract -

signed, sealed, and destined

for breach.

Such a tidy little term

for something so untidy.

So tragically combustible.

A loop, really.

A carousel of connection, disconnection,

and the illusion of control.

People line up for it,

pay for it,

bleed for it.

And yet,

when you truly love - really love -

there are no lists.

No bullet points or Venn diagrams.

There’s only her,

or him,

or whoever made time stop

for just long enough

to make you forget

how it ever moved before.

Love is blind, yes -

but it also sees too much.

It illuminates everything

and still blinds you

with the brilliance of its own fire.

You don’t stay because it makes sense.

You stay because sense left the room

the moment their eyes met yours.

You stay because leaving

would hurt more than any wound

they could ever inflict.

Or maybe you stay

because pain and love

have long since blurred

into the same soft ache in your chest.

And when it ends -

ah, when it ends -

it’s not the goodbye that haunts you.

It’s the how.

How you thought too fast,

spoke too little,

asked the wrong questions

with answers you feared.

How you left when you should’ve waited,

or stayed when you should’ve run.

How you were so busy protecting your heart

you forgot to let it beat.

So no,

I don’t believe in relationships.

I believe in gravity,

in madness,

in that rare, ruinous spark

that defies language altogether.

And if you're lucky enough to find that -

God help you.

Because it will never let you be the same.

And you won't want to be.