You were my own fiction. A misplaced reality.

I hear sounds of scratching pen on a paper. The strokes were sometimes slow paced, but most of the time, I can sense its intensity and agitation in trying to write something onto the paper. All those times, I thought these sounds came from a pen, until I realized, that these sounds weren't actually from a pen at all, not really. But these were from the constant rush of thoughts inside my head that were rhymed by the sound of my own heartbeat.

And this always happened on those times that I was thinking of you.

So I guess it's safe to say that the pen was my thoughts. The paper was my heart. And the scratches were the stories. The three bounded by all my emotional imagination, and I am the author of this self-made fiction. I made my thoughts, based on my roller-coaster emotions, into stories. Fictional stories of how you were everything I wish you were. In these stories, I allowed myself to fell so dangerously in love with no intention of drawing back. I made myself believe in the kind of love that I only read from romantic novels. My love was not unrequited. Whatever my infatuated feelings for you, you did have the same towards me. You see, these are the pen of thoughts that have been scratching and scribbling. These are the stories that I had placed and nursed dearly in my paper heart— ink stains, erasures, and all.

I found bliss storing these stories inside my heart. The happiness I felt was radiated across my entire body. With each pump of blood from my paper heart, it carried the sweet words all through out my veins, across every nerve ending in my body. And the only visible sign of this little bliss of words were the faint glow of red that showed on my cheeks whenever I hear someone mentions your name.

It was all going well. I had become too familiar with the routine of my body until such time, when all of a sudden, I noticed a tiny black hole in my paper heart. It must have been a blotch of ink stain, I thought. As I was about to fix the hole, it magnetically sucked me. Like I was being stretched into two places at once. Everything around me swirls and then it appears like I was watching a montage of films of you and me, and never "us". And then I became aware that I was being vacuumed out of the false word, out of my own fiction of you, and then I was brought back into the real life. I couldn't even remember exactly what was going on in my mind at that time, except that I kept asking myself, how long had I misplaced reality into something as stupid and pointless as the imaginary world my feelings had created for you.

Sometimes when I lay in bed, I try to recall the sounds the scratching pen used to make. It seems like it happened a long time ago, that if I look back, I'd be lost somewhere in the timeline. But even fictions, no matter how beautiful, exciting, and colorful it is, there must always be an ending. It can't go on forever. And reality will always bite. I have no idea where my own fiction is going to, if it's still out there. But it doesn't matter now. Because every time I see you in the hallway, I smile a little to myself. But it's the kind of smile that connects both the fiction and the misplaced reality. Because I know that my own fiction is still there, walking somewhere, perhaps searching for his own reality. But now, I'm sure, that my reality will never be misplaced to him again.