If you asked me right now, what love meant, I would try to find every way possible to describe it to you. I don't know the meaning of love.
Is it the rose and gifts everyone receives on valentines day? Is it that kiss on the cheek your mama plants you before going to sleep? Is it that letter I received from you, telling how sorry you were?
Remember that time we spent the night talking about what we would do if the world exploded in one hour?
You told me that you would try to kill yourself first, so that you have that little bit of control over your life.
And I said that it was stupid. Because you were controlling everything around you. How you entered that room, in the simplest kind of way, but still managed to have everyone look at you, breath-taken.
Or how everyone shuts up when you talk. How you don't let those plants of yours die, because you have control over them.
I think, the only thing that you couldn't control was your smile and your laugh around me. You had the most genuine kind of happiness. I know everything about you.
How you hate love letters, how you used to have fictional characters from your favorite books as friends when you were kid. How you love to be spoiled. How much you like attention.
I could go on and on and on about you, but that's the thing. You are fictional, and I am real. I'll probably know what love means one day. I say it to my best friends and family all the time.
But with you I couldn't, cause you aren't real.