Love is neverending. The fire might have been blown off but the ashes are still there which could be ignited again in a single blow.
Love is not supposed to be stereotypical. A love that’s lost could be found again. The unhappy ending could not be the real ending. There’s a sequel for true love.
Reminiscing is dangerous for heartbroken people. It’s a green-light for masochism. It’s like a rollercoaster ride which creates terrifying screams out of being horrified but you’re loving it and you will even eagerly wait for the long queue to give out that exciting screams again. Ironic, indeed.
