It wasn't the story I needed.

Before she left on her flight, I told her I may be in love.

“You think you are or…”
“I feel I am.”

It’s better not to think. She said something about this being the third time. She could have said anything other than that. But, no. I’d rather be a liar than lucky. She made me sound like I was always falling. Falling into major conditions. A sickness. Depositing sanity to accumulate change. I’m not very mathematic. It hasn’t been three times, I wanted to fire back, but nothing is worse than denial, doubt. She was envious, dropped the call, took to Chicago and three days after my confession sent me a text saying she had found her mate, her soul. Congratulations. I replied but she hasn’t seen this because they are talking, still. Sixteen days ago, I said I am in love. But I kept this to myself because I didn’t know what to do with it. I hadn’t decided. Once it’s said, more time is spent trying to understand what it means, if love is what you wanted when you stopped by his house that one day. The day I didn't think could make me feel differently at all.