For a while, you were my every poem. I knew I couldn’t draw, so I tried to write you down instead. I don’t think any of those pieces did you justice. No metaphors or similes I could pen could actually encompass what it was like to experience you. I wonder if you ever came across any of them, if you smiled or laughed or maybe even cried, depending on the content. They weren’t always happy pieces. I never did feel right seeing a sunset without you. Your voice was the only song I would never think of skipping if given the option, so when I was no longer allowed to hear it, I longed for it. I guess that’s how it goes when someone you love leaves. You wish you loved them harder and held onto them tighter when you had the chance, as if somehow the fault is in the strength of your muscles. Some would say that Shakespeare got it wrong, that the fault really is in our stars, that they just weren’t meant to be. I don’t know what to say about us. Maybe fate had something to do with it, but what about free will? You didn’t have to go. You could’ve stayed, we could’ve tried to make things work, but you decided to walk away anyway. How could I blame the stars for that?
— The fault in ourselves. // Maxwell Diawuoh