Love Is Not A Choice

HAY, I'm Dhvani. I have a really uncommon name and I hate it. Just an 18-year-old potato from the Middle-East that now lives in Nottingham, UK. You probably won't like me. 
Time Scene


2:36 AM: My phone makes the sound of a chime, receiving a text message.
“Hey. I miss you.”

 I pick up my phone, squinting my eyes at the brightness of the screen. I read the name I got the message from. It’s him. My heart skips a beat just like it used to when he a large part of my life, eight-months ago. I could feel the pounding of my heart through the flesh and skin of my body.
I remembered how much I used to be infatuated by him. I had realized that his personality was cold, yet so captivating. I used to think he never consisted of flaws. But being with him was comparable to having the winter weather, all year round.
Through all of his bitterness, he ruined me. He, metaphorically, had stepped over my heart and flattened it, leaving nothing in it.

2:38 AM: “I’m sorry, who is this?” I replied, even though I know very well that it’s him.
From the start, he was aware of the soft spot and the affection I consisted for him. He always took an advantage of it. This wasn’t the first time he’d said I miss you or I’m sorry or I promise I’ll change. The last time he wanted me back, he said “I love you and I want to be with you. But you’re not letting me in.”
That was the excuse had used when I had caught him sliding his hands up Ellie Costa’s skirt, behind some of the big rocks on Serafina Beach on the coastline during the “skip-a-day” party. The sun had almost set then and I had been walking with Daya close to the water.

I had taken him in, yet again, and decided to give myself in to him. He had me all.

His last mistake, after which I thought I had enough of his mistreatment towards me, I walked away from him with teary eyes after saying, “You’re a cunt.”
I had every right to say that, after all, not only had he cheated on me for the third-time, but also he was labeling me as the slut in front of all of his friends.

2:39 AM: Me lying on my bed, continue staring at my phone in a state of shock that after all this time, I receive a text from him.

My phone starts to vibrate and softly sing the lyrics to the song Up In The Air, my set ringtone. It read his name on there. I don’t answer it. The call cuts off.
A few seconds later, it starts to ring again and I decide not to answer it. The call cuts off, again. This happens a few times, me studying his name every time it appeared on the screen.

My locked screen read 10 missed calls.

My mind rewinded back to all the beautiful moments we had; the sunsets, the sunrises, the dates. Even those very few moments he made me feel like I was a bright little sunflower in a room full of daisies. It was all just a formality to him.
I realise how much I had loved him.
I realise that it was no point trying to pretend like nothing happened between us.
I realise that I hadn’t spent the last eight-months trying to fix myself to give in once more.

2:50 AM: “I don’t love you anymore Max, I’m sorry.” I hold on the send button for five-seconds and finally release it.
I lied. I still love him. I possibly always will.
But he was still the same icy lion he always will be, trying to take advantage of the innocent sheep.

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I love sleeping to avoid problems. Matthew Healy, The 1975. (via he4rt-out)

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