It might be the possibility, but never a probability that he ever missed a thing or two. It might, to the point that she would thank god if he even remembered.

Several years ago, their idea of love was a mix tape with songs from their memories, contained in an old black cassette tape. Fingers were slightly brushed as they pressed the button play while a hint of crimson ran up those cheeks.

And they stumbled on their faults and misery. The path was scattered into million ways, and it was a tad bit late as they stood up and got back on the unfortunate wrong paths. It was ugly and it was long.


But the paths were crossed, forcing its ways to mold into one again.

And it was painfully pathetic that they never knew the world wants them as one.



She stayed in silence, though. It wasn't like she ever stopped loving. But the bastard's heart healed as fast as a Wolverine's wound. And the next second, he was the Wolverine who was madly in love with Silverfoxes.

Then, their idea of love was a 5 pm tea date with a new American song on play and fingers intertwined under the table cloth, and it was too reckless and meaningless that no bloodstream ran up to those high cheekbones under the dim light of the café.



Their idea of love was making her sick.