I can take the silence. I can accept the indifference. I can find reasons to smile in our long-lost escapades. I can be good on my own. I could make up false tales in my mind to not like you so much. I can take it all in humour. I could make an effort to be happy. And I could make myself believe, it was short, thus trifle. I can pretend to move past this and simultaneously list numerous reasons why it would do me good. I could truncate you under a grievous mistake or folly on my part. Belittle the very essence of our story. In distant future, may be, may be I could even delude myself to have forgotten you. But, after all of this done on my behalf, if one day you see me and tell me you love me, it would effusively break me apart. It would be the end of all my strength. I would live and die together in that moment. I fail to explain it better.