Ivy
“I can’t do this. Please. Please, let me go. Please, if you love me, let me go and leave. Please.”
There is this German saying: Old love never rusts. What a stupid saying. I would be happy if this love finally rusted. People create art with rust. Why doesn’t that work with love? Why can’t it transform into some delicate work of art – something I can put on my shelf and look at from time to time with a few melancholic thoughts?
But this love has a life of its own, like ivy. Every time I try to tear a vine from my heart, another one is already attached. These little roots are inseparably connected to… well, me. I can’t exist without them; I will never be free.
I can’t let him back into my life, though. Not after five years. Not after everything. At least that’s what my mind is telling me. My heart, however? It’s saying something different. And as if things aren’t complicated enough, my brothers interfere in things that are just none of their business.
In the end, only one question remains: Is this love enough to risk everything?
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