Not like the movies... at all.

**unedited, must-reveal entry that I have drafted after I got the gift prior to this post. 

Yesterday I got my advance valentine's gifts in the tune of flowers, my favorite chocolate cake as brought by, still, my most favorite guy in the face of the planet.

Because of that, I cried. We cried. A lot.

While sitting on the paved sidewalk, witnessed by the towering street lights and the mute wrought-iron gates of the biggest house in the street following ours, we had our much-awaited confrontation. Took us nearly two-months before we were both given the chance to elaborate on so many matters.

As I type, recalling that moment. I shake my head in disbelief that every part of that moment conclusively and ridiculously fits a movie climax. Wherein the only thing lacking are droplets of rain on the couple's face while tears continuously stream on their cheeks. And voila, you have an unvarying Cathy Garcia-Molina scene.

However, I am not a spectator of the sequence.
Much as I wanted to sit around and just cry with the leading lady, I can't.
For I feel all the pain.
It was I under the spotlight.
I was trapped in a knowable scene that I many times wished to never, ever come into my life.
The crippling pain in the chest followed through.
And I knew, everything was as real as it could be.

I would like to say I am the protagonist in this lone drama of my love life, but next to him I'd rather step aside to become the antagonist. A local melodrama with a twist. For the heartbreaker has an equally shattered heart.