If someone asked me to describe love in a sentence before, I would say that love, to me, was another meaningless shout in the void. Love was like arrival and departure, a way to fulfill empty people and yet, never enough to fulfill them for long.  

        When I met you, I didn't fall in love with you. I had a crush. You had a cigarette in your mouth, and you looked at me like you already knew me. You told me that you were a philosopher, I told you that you were someone's bad mistake. You said that everybody is, I asked you if you'd like to be mine.

        You said my eyes were like the ocean, and your eyes were ordinary. You said they reminded people of nothing. I told you that your eyes were deep, earthly brown—the color of soil after torrential rains in the dark, and worn sea glass, like a glistening copper penny kept in flames, sunrays shining through whiskey on a bright day. They were like a hot rich cocoa, sprinkled with tiny dust of gold. And then you smiled for a second, and smoked another puff looking blankly at the clouds.

        You took me to the hills on early summer mornings, and you sat there with me and read Hemingway aloud with your brows arched. And I asked you if we made too many moments, and you told me that these were those perfect things that we would remember. You told me that these were the only things that wouldn't make our heartache. I took the book from you, and read aloud.

        You told me that you were going to move, you told me that you were returning to your home. I said that I wanted to watch a movie, and you played Dead Poets Society just like the first time when I wanted to watch a movie with you. We sat there and almost talked about it for the next two hours, and then we slept.

        I woke up next morning and I found a letter and a mixtape on my table. You said that I was your favorite goodbye, and I sat there and played the tape and drank coffee. It was a mix of all the songs that we heard together and talked about. It was beautiful.

        For days, I thought of you. I wanted to call but you never texted me since you were gone. I went to the hills alone at mornings and read poetries. I watched movies alone, eating a tub of ice cream. It started aching, I started having a heartache. 

        I wanted to surprise you, I went to visit your hometown. I found your address, and I saw you sitting with a girl on your staircase and reading poetries to her, and then you kissed her cheeks and she said something. I called out your name, and you were startled. You came out and asked what I was doing, and I told you that I wanted to see you. You told me that you and I weren't made for love, or for each other. I told you that I missed you and you reminded me that you were supposed to be my bad mistake. I didn't say a thing. I went away. 

        Love was no more a meaningless shout in the void. It was the shortest sweetest, yet terrifying song. 'Come home', it sang. It fulfilled until you overflowed, and then emptied until you had nothing left. Love was now like a station which you can not depart from, you can only arrive.