Something That Will Always Be Written But Never Read by Kateryna Malyarenko

Smile of the eyes.

This was exactly what made me feel enchanted, this brightness, shining and caressing in the sight which showed the deepest interest and interaction are extremely rare, but you expressed it so easily and sincerely that I sometimes felt lost. Lost in love, viscous honey and scent of winy lavender. Wavy hair, divided into small strands, added grace to you. Or seriousness, depending on what you needed and therefore put it in different ways. It seemed that as soon as I caught your eyes with mine, the hair felt it and turned on its “cute side”. They were most likely in a secret conspiracy without our knowledge. I even loved that one strand of hair that you never managed to put in and which I pretended not to notice when you asked about it. 

Whenever I tried to do something difficult on my own, like carry heavy bags home or open a tightly closed jar, and refused your help at first, two little dimples appeared on your charming face (which always had something clingy, but I couldn't get what exactly it was) They became even bigger with that smile, when I gave up and agreed to your help. Or what I also noticed is that sometimes you could be so strict with others and then turned to me and told with such a sweet voice “yes, my darling?” 

I have no doubt that for almost all people, For many people my constant talkativeness was annoying, awkward, and inappropriate, but not to you. You were always such an active listener, as if I told a dictation that you need to retell orally. You tried to catch various nuances, details, and aspects of my stories in order to understand their full spectrum and arrange everything according to the shelves on which they should be put in your head. 

I was very attracted to the fact that you had your favourite thing, which seemed to be your essence and soul. For you, writing has always been separated, only your own world, full of inspiration, where you directed all your passion. Apparently, at some point I became your muse because after long conversations with me, you enthusiastically rushed to the nearest piece of paper with a pencil. I remember how funny it was when you wrote an eloquent combination of words on a napkin with my lipstick. 

This was how day after day passed, it seemed quietly, harmonious and pleasant. But suddenly, everything changed. No, I'm lying, actually it was all gradual, but despite my good eyesight, I didn't see, or didn't want to see, the real situation that was collapsing, pebble by pebble. 

One day you unexpectedly said that I should not enter your cabinet any more because it was only your own workplace, in which you after began to spend all the free time you had. I could assume that it was due to too much inspiration, so I didn’t hesitate for long and agreed. But every time I accidentally forgot about it and came in, you turned into a furious animal person and shouted at me to get out of there. I am your world, why didn’t you allow your world to see you...? Or when you went out of the room and went to see me, you did not allow me to hug and kiss, but tried to change the subject and always said: "Tell me, please, that story about...". You knew very well that my love language is touch, long hugs. However, you stopped giving me this, but demanded stories, more and more and more... I don’t deserve hugs, do I? 

Once I slipped into the cabinet and took some of your manuscripts to read because along with the ban on entry, I also lost the opportunity to read your works. But I certainly did not expect to see what was written there. The plot was full of stories that are similar to the ones I told you from my life, only with some details changed that did not significantly affect the story. I would even consider it very cute because I am a muse, if it weren't for one draft. “She loves my smile, if I also say something nice before that, she will definitely tell a cute story”, “if she is helped in difficult things, then she will tell stories about injustice or insolent people”, “When I give her hugs, she wants silence and will never tell me any story not to break a “special moment””, "Tousle your hair, smile, take out a notebook or if you manage to turn on the recorder”, “She is already so annoying to me, but there is still a little left to finish the manuscript." 

My horror and despair mingled with the tears that rolled down my stress-swollen cheeks. You only needed stories, my stories. You didn't love me, you loved them. For you, I was an open book, a collection of interesting stories or a notebook with a lock, where you need to choose the necessary password to open it. You knew my password, used it, manipulated it. 

I was too stupid, too naive, wasn't I? Was I blinded by the reflection, which was not addressed to me, but was just a shiny attractive but at the same time deceptive mask for stories? You cheated me once, you cheated me twice, here I am, in the tent of dirty darkness. The darkness you dragged me into. And I allowed it to happen. It covered me in awful black slime, but no, it was you. You. 

Now I can easily see the hair didn't actually make you cute, it tried to warn me that I would never be your world, or at least the tiniest crumb of it. I will forever remain only a source for it, a consumable, nothing more. 

You destroyed my self-esteem, my faith, love, and trust. You really were my world, but you also became that creature monster that destroys the planet. A human. You became a human. You became a human in the worst of its manifestations, or rather you always were, but hid it masterly as well as blinded me. 

As it is said, rose-coloured glasses always break with the glass inward. But, despite all this, among the two of us, I am probably the better writer, because I wrote a love story that I made myself believe in.