25 Lives, by Tongari
The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and donât love me back. The next time you are brunette, and you do. After a while I give up trying to guess if the colour of your hair means anything. because even if you donât exist, I am always in love with you. I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together, when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me. I love how you play along with my bad ideas, before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas. (And in our times together I have many bad ideas.) When we meet as adults youâre always much more discerning. I donât blame you. Yet, always, you forgive me. As if you understand whatâs going on, and youâre making up for all the lifetimes in which one of us doesnât exist, and the ones where we just, barely, never meet. I hate those. I prefer the ones in which you kill me. But when allâs said and done, Iâd surrender to you in other ways. Even though each time, I know Iâll see you again, I always wonder is this the last time? Is that really you? And what if youâre perfectly happy without me? Ah, but I donât blame you; Iâll never burn as brilliantly as you. Itâs only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where youâll return to me.
