sjsprWriting

Story of the boy who got tired 

I want to tell you about a boy who loved a girl so much he heard her voice in corners, and her face in every person he met. He painted her a beautiful world through simple, delicate words, but she didn’t notice because she was too busy painting a beautiful world to someone else. Still, he was determined to be something in her life: a hug on Mondays, a couple of stolen looks on Tuesdays, small conversation on Wednesdays, silence on Thursdays, and nothing on Fridays. And yet. Because she didn’t see his paintings, he wrote her books, which she couldn’t read because that’s the thing about loving someone who doesn’t love you back, you don’t share the same language. And he wrote, and wrote until his fingers bled and he still kept going. One day, consumed with pain on his left hand, he stopped writing to her letters on old High School notebooks, and poems on walls and napkins. He composed to music because he wanted to whisper lovely things, but it just wasn't loud enough. He tried and tried, until one day he stopped, and then she started to miss his words, but he was just too tired.