What was, was real. At least to her unsuspecting mind, clouded by love, which rendered her dumb, deaf and blind.
And so it was invalidated, brushed-off as a Summer-break love (the one that ends as summer does), a tryst, a fling, a casual date, not a love rendering one dumb, deaf and blind.
It was real. All real. But just to her. And a few who only heard her heart's truth and not his.
Her truth, the one which her heart spoke of, was the sense that it was real, genuine, sincere. Her love, his love, was real, to her.
His truth, the one his mouth spoke of, was that it didn't feel right; his heart wasn't ready to love...
Now his heart did speak of love, but that love, was not for her... it was never meant for her. His heart was never hers.
Her heart felt his mouth was recounting a lie, disguising his heart's truth; his love was never given to her. It was never meant for her.
Her love for self was an overwhelming force, more powerful than her need for him and his comfort, his warmth...
With the strength of her heart, her heart acknowledged that the only one worthy of it, is one whose heart has the same truth as hers; her love, his love, is real, to her and to him.
