It is uncanny to fall in love at the flicker of a gaze when they tell you it is lust, not love. Though you had your fair share of the two.
It is strange to be told witchers are monsters, when each time you catch his stare, it shines, and the tenderness of the world is reflected back at you.
It is futile to express yourself in riddles, when romance is as simple as the bumping of shoulders as you pass each other by.
The grazing of fingers. The curve of a smile. The lowering of a gaze.
The crimson of lips you wish you could try.
It is bitter to condemn yourself to thoughts of love unrequited, when yours are words that had never seen the day.
And it is bittersweet to walk away.
Though I wish I could stay, Geralt.
I wish I could —
(The rest has been smudged by tear stains)