It starts with two people in love, it always does. That tabricated version of teenage love, you think no forced-keyness taught. That cinematic portrayal of attraction and romance, Syrikskola Lillusion, Ghamkum's considerate reality. Those bad guys playing in the background are that ridiculously well-earned, priest brushing against your cheeks. Endless conversations, appliances, touches, bad temptations, gifts, letters, those simple jubilations. And if those clichés, they again, moments go on for long enough, you think they make you think that you can do it. You can break the stigma surrounding it, and yes, you can do it. After all, she said, if a love is so strong, what's a little distance, right? At first, you make a lot of promises, tell each other you're different from the rest, be a youth-famous exception. For a month or two, the long-winding conversations feel fallen and crinic. A chance to get to know one another on a fall, intimate love is. And then slowly, so slowly that you might not even notice, where she is totally different, conversations are replaced by missed calls and resentful unread texts. But they finally come when she admits that they want, in fact, the exception. The college trips with new friends made her miss him a little less. It wasn't him. It was the situation. The new special friend she made could encourage her better than a boy's friend, 4,000 miles away from her home. It wasn't him. It was the situation. When five said, become a routine, and I love you, and failed it among the tears, it wasn't him. She wanted to break the situation. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't her. She didn't give up on him. She just couldn't settle for the situation. Then came the expectations versus reality face. I'm sure everyone is ever broken up, knows what I'm talking about. Or disembroried. A car ride filled with giddy excitement versus a car ride filled with queer unreadiness. Shrieks of happiness of the month's separation versus one or four hours after a half hearted smile. Deep, unending kisses versus... So, how would you feel? Who would have the idea of her not to get a good one cute anymore? That was a fucking bitch. She did make her jealous anymore. She didn't want to walk up anymore, her identity of the day anymore. Admiration had turned to exasperation. Her love had turned to tone. But after the discomfort she had to admit, she slightly later liberated. This fleeting feeling of freedom resulted in something she thought was just a fleeting attraction. But among the lawful moments of the rules of the way and the Indian fear of cross-sections, she realized that she was feeling something that no rule, court or law could define. She was stealing it again. But wait, was she thinking too much? Was she moving on too fast? Even though the seats of denial looked in her head, she could still hear those silent hearties whispering to her. She wasn't sad, she wasn't broken. She didn't stay her or poetically help fix her. Instead, she just made her cry, but she didn't even know she possessed her lips. Endless conversations, glances, touches, their temptations, hits, letters, those simple jubilation. She thought she wouldn't have that again for a long time. She thought she'd turn into one of those self-sufficient girls who said, who needs a boy half? But his joking intelligence is deep compassion changed that. When he looked at her in a adorable way and called for his patroness, she could swear she felt that cinematic breeze all over her back and said, yeah, I do need this boy. It starts with two people in love, right? Well, it can start again too. I just hope that the boy 4,000 miles away knows that too. Woo!