[Remember, this story is a stream-of-consciousness excerpt from a full story. It's deliberately abstract; besides, what's more abstract and incomprehensible that whatever it is we feel when want to hug somebody?]
Love, as it turns out, is an overwhelmingly complicated subject, one that doesn't appear to get any easier to comprehend the more you try. When you're in love, the way you function turns out not to after all, and so you end up walking yourself up the steps without a hug, laughing to yourself because of the flutter in your intestines, while at the same time screaming into your pillow because you should have just hugged him, dang it, how could you have been so stupid?
A terrible inconvenience all at once. An enigma on his own, I need a believer's strength to maintain any sanity after a simple afternoon of his company, as if the word "company" could ever collect all the beats of my heart to fulfill its true meaning. I love him and so I lift my hands at the end of the night, happiness expelled from every end of my existence, but he simply drives home, unless he too lifts his hands, but what if he just simply drives home after all?
Love at the same time is an overwhelmingly complicated thought process, thinking about how things could work out or rather not. In the end, maybe he loves me. Let's not talk about it but instead think about it, even though we're going to pretend like we're not even thinking about it.
I don't want to talk about it because by doing so I accept the fact that he means something to me. To risk so much of one's heart is a terrifying thing, but I'm almost happy about it. In fact I am, which is the worst part.
He is my over-complication. He is my mountain from a molehill. He is also the greatest thing that has ever happened to me and I'm quite thoroughly in love with him, but I'm not about to tell anyone that.
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