secondhand heartbreak

xiii. nicotine

he becomes increasingly more difficult to recognize as time goes by. it seems like a blink-and-you-miss-it transformation, like only mere seconds in the eyes of the universe have passed by the time he starts to change.

(for a long time, i had made the disastrous mistake of believing it was for the best.)

(i was wrong.)

(that seems to be a theme, though.)

he sees that she shoulders the same demons he does, but manages to make bearing the weight look oh so effortless, and he is left wondering how.

he sees that she makes the billions of broken, beaten down, black and blue bits of herself look beautiful, and he is left worshipping those bits most.

he no longer wears a mask everywhere he goes, because he no longer feels the need to. the mask that once concealed the physical manifestation of the emotions he was too closed off to express is near useless now. the burden of that pain lessens, and naturally, the mask starts to slip.

(it eventually slid right off his face, and i could barely recognize him.)

the rough lines around his mouth,
   the crease between his brows,
       the dark circles under dark eyes,
          they all disappear, replaced by unfamiliar features and foreign faces.

the sadness that haunted him still does, because it always will (that will never change), but it is not nearly as much to bear as it had been before.

it's as if she is the drug he's become addicted to, the drug he relies on to numb the pain so he doesn't have to.

and while she is not the unhealthiest coping mechanism i've witnessed him resort to, well, i've yet to mention the bad side effects.