I write to you.
I write for you. 
What's in it for me? I have come across that question so many times. And I'd know, if only I put myself first...

It was already a mundane day when you thought to say, "It's falling apart..." 
I wondered when did you even build anything up between us? You'd argue that a relationship of trust is what we had built, but I only saw a transparent wall; only I could see and not go through it. 

You were right. 
I, You, Me, Us...your imaginary 'trust', it was falling apart. In my frantic attempts to gather the pieces, I only saw my own reflection. You were breaking up, piece by piece, for who I was. When I was on my knees, literally picking myself up, I saw what I had done. I had poisoned myself.

That profound satisfaction of being close to someone is the kind of poison most of us intentionally ingest, and then run after an antidote. Emotions are the real antagonists. 

But I don't think I should complain. I have grown to like this abstractness, the vagueness about us. This is just how you liked things to be: uncertain. unrestrained. 

I wonder...did you set me free or I let you go?

If we ever meet again, I'd like to ask you about the same, Ok, N?