a story

You used to be my storyteller,

the lady thought as she took a glance to the old man sitting beside her.

She wondered if stories - like everyone in this life - had expiration date, if stories were mere stories - nothing more, if stories really happened at some point in the past. She was never good in telling dreams apart from reality - a case of deja vu or just a one-time thought that lingered and masqueraded as truth.

While he... He had a way with words. He knew how to entwine one to another wonderfully - he sparked chemistry. But then life happened, time got in the way, imagination dissolved along the way, and he hadn't figured out a way to stop the time. He tried so hard to create a wonderful story that he forgot to live out his.

You used to listen to my silence,

the old man thought as he ignored the stolen glances from the lady right next to him.