It was all messy and a bit smelly as well around me. Suddenly, I felt a warm streak running down my nose onto my lips. Afraid of ruining the paper under my dancing fingers, I immediately pushed myself away from the table and wiped my nose. To my surprise, it was blood.
"Hah…" A small laugh escaped my lips. All through my school years, I had desperately wanted to have a nosebleed, or a dizzy spell; pretending like the weak girls who got held by sturdy teachers and rushed by warm hearts to the infirmary, offered juice, cookies, or chips, and, in the best cases, a day off.
And here I was, sitting alone in my dark cabin amid piles of pages, finally getting a nosebleed.
What luck! I couldn't even take advantage of this blood and sweat. I chuckled as I pushed a rolled tissue into my nose while holding my head up, staring at the ceiling that seemed, if I kept staring too long, as though it might fall on me.
I was always an overthinker. Everything I saw turned into a story, into a chronicle. And honestly, no one was really interested in what I had to say. Reason? Simple; because they didn't understand me. But I won't complain; even I couldn't understand myself at times.
Coming back to the point: I was staring at the ceiling. Then, after a minute or so, I drew my attention back to my work and; ugh! there was a big blotch of blood on my paper.
"No, no, nooo…" I cried as I tried to wipe it away. But deep inside, I knew it was useless. After all, I knew better than anyone that it was too late now. Maybe.
I cast a last look at the writing I had finally produced after months, and now it was ruined. I was about to throw it away, but then that blood dot looked a little too beautiful.
Amid my illegible writing, it looked almost romantic.
And here's the thing; I've always hated that word romance. Always been grossed out by it whenever someone asked me if I liked that specific genre. The reason is simple: people have screwed up the definition, twisted it into the corniest, grossest expressions of sentiment. Warped it into something cheap, dripping with sickly-sweet clichés. And worse; they think anyone who likes romance must be some honey-dripping, pink-heart-wearing, drooling little fool.
But deep inside me, romance has always been something sacred. To this day, I believe romance is a holy word: To me, romance is the quiet devotion to whatever you love. Whatever you want to protect. The will to live. The passion to finish what you started. The stubborn struggle to keep going, even when you hate every second of it. That; that right there; is romance in my dictionary. Not the shallow male–female carnal, flirtatious mawkishness its been reduced to.
A quiet devotion to yourself; that's what I call romance. That's what I call romantic.
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