The bad dreams have ceased to let hauntings retake their place.

The odds are what I have, delicate in my hands. The odds are that I have found someone who loves me as much as I do him. There isn't a measure of comparison about depth or expression, because there isn't a lacking in that. It is no longer a story of a unrequited chase or the fairytale of a courtship.

He dedicates my favourite song to me and remembers my ringing tones. He cooks the best meal for me and tells me that mine's better (although we both know it really doesn't matter). He watches my favourite movie with me and liked it. He sneaks to the kitchen to grab my home-baked cookies while watching my favourite movie. He browses through all my childhood photographs and giggles like a kid. He plays my piano and makes me sing and takes over the singing everytime I forget the words to the songs. He appreciates me and I am happy.

So if anyone should feel anything about us, I'll tell everyone that it is in nobody's place and within nobody's rights (and in fact, futile), to feel anything other than well wishes. Because for one, we are exclusively and mutually happy. And that's all that needs to matter.

I have left a past so traumatic behind, so have you. So why haven't the rest, who are irrelavant? What is officially marked as a break up, leave it alone.