Call me an ideal person or a delusional one, but I’m still dreaming and hoping for that kind of love to come in my life that are like in the books. That kind of love that overcomes everything. That kind of love that I finally find the reason why I’m living and that that person is the only reason after all. That kind of love that that person accepts me entirely for who I am and for who I am not and for who I am underneath all my masks. And even when all the masks come off at the end of the day, that person will still love me and all my flaws and all the unacceptable things that I find in myself won’t make that person love me less.
A love like in the books, to find that person would never give up on me, would use words, or music, or literature to woo me. That person would make me feel so special. Everyone wants to feel that they’re special anyway. That kind of love that even in silence, it is still felt in an overwhelming way. That kind of love that would make other kinds of love so little and unimportant. A love that is immeasurable. A love that doesn’t end even when the book has ended. That kind of love that would make me stop dreaming and wishing about what kind of man or what kind of love I want to have because I finally have that person and would know that it is that person is what I’ve been waiting for.
It is only in the rarest times that I allow myself to think about love and having a person to love in an intimate and romantic way. And it is only in these rarest times that I let myself dream and hope of the love that I want to have in my life. A love a lot like in the books.