Say, you've been with someone all your life and you're sure that you're very much in love with that person. Or so you think. One morning, you wake up to look at the person sleeping still next to you only to realize that you don't really know who that someone is. Creases in the bed sheets speak deeply into the echoes of your heart, and invisible ink's filling up the cracks, as you like to believe. A stranger spent the night in bed with you, and you just want to keep lying still, cocooned in that space. Close your eyes, and it's a little easier to pretend. That's what doing literature in university is like, for me, a little befuddling, a tinge of a heartache.

But I'll have to stay with my love, my everything, and hope that it'll find a way. With it, at least I'm something, even if it's a bubble with a three-second lifespan or the shade behind a shadow. I've got someone to dress up my illusions and strip them dry, play mind games and dawdle with. Without it, I'm nothing, maybe not even a speck of dust.