And before the day they met, he could not have told you what happiness felt like.

He could not explain the sensation of a growing smile.

Nor the rush of a fluttering heart.

He could not tell you what it meant to walk with purpose.

Because he had never been happy before.

But the day they met was a scene of overwhelming serendipity.

A smile smothered his face, and he could not force himself to remove it.

He could have sworn that there were birds attempting to escape the warming organ in his chest.

After meeting her, every step was a step closer to her.

And on the day he stuttered the word 'love', he couldn't have told you what sadness felt like.

When upset, she would always clutch her stomach protectively. She acted as if our relationship were inside her like a baby, and that clutching the baby would stop me from telling the truth. She thought it would stop me from telling her what she didn't want to hear. In the middle of an argument once, I stared down at her stomach, waiting for her to clutch it. She didn't. I knew she had given up. She was tired of hearing what no one else cared enough to tell her. She lost me. But the worst part was, she never actually had me in the first place. She had that baby. She had the feelings. She never had the person. She had how I made her feel. And now she's left with no one, because every relationship before ours was just as much a baby. She is alone.