I remember the first time she whispered, "Don't fall in love with me."
I thought it was a joke.
Now, I see it for what it was—a warning. One I didn't listen to.
She had that kind of smile—soft, tragic, like she already knew how the story would end. And maybe she did. Maybe she had already ruined others before me. Or maybe I was the first one stupid enough to believe I could save her.
They always say love is beautiful, but they forget to mention the part where it breaks you. Where it twists inside your chest like a knife you willingly handed over.
I didn't fall in love with her. I dove. And by the time I realized I was drowning, she was already walking away.
Now, every time I hear her name, something inside me flinches.
Not because I hate her.
But because a part of me still loves her.
And that's the curse of love.