Maybe, one day, I’ll stop writing about you.

Maybe, I’ll refrain from scribbling your name all over my journal until my pen run out of ink. Maybe, I’ll stop describing you as a storm or as the moon for you are not a metaphor to be written, you are just a boy who took away my heart. Maybe I would no longer wake up at 3am only to find my hands aching to write endless pleas for you to take me back. Maybe, I’ll stop letting the words flow from my fingertips as I write another unsent letter for you during those nights that I could not sleep. Maybe, my keyboard would cease from creating a music as I type another poem to romanticize the heartbreak I am experiencing from you. Maybe, a time would come when I would no longer feel the urge to add another page to the novel I have composed about you.

Or maybe not.

Maybe, years from now, I’d still write your name at the back of my planner as I think of all the things I wanted to do with you. Maybe, I’d find myself writing the words you have written for me each time I test the ink of a marker that I buy from a bookstore. Maybe you would still be the him that I pertain to each time I write a story on our creative writing class.

But then again, maybe not.

Maybe, I’d treat your name as a flame that will burn my hands down once I have written it. Maybe I would treat writing letters to you as a sin and every time I commit it, I’d punish myself for not writing for a long time until I can write without writing about you. Maybe I can program my pen, my mind and my heart to remove all the fragments of memories that you have left there so that I would not have to worry about wantingvto write about you.

Maybe, one day, I’d stop writing about you, maybe not.

But then one thing I am sure of is that I could not help myself from scrawling and scrawling these words on my notebook. I can’t end the stories I have written with you. I can’t stop converting the images, the fantasies inside my head into words so that I would remember, so that I would not forget that you were once mine. That you were once here with me and that we intended to write a story only you left me with the pen. I would not stop writing because maybe, when you read the words, you would finally come back to me or maybe not. Maybe you would be gone forever.

Maybe, one day, I’d stop writing about you but even if I do, I have written enough. I have written enough so that if ever I found myself missing you in the future, I’d have enough pages to flip through my history to remind me of you and how intense were my feelings about you.