Crazy.

People thought I was crazy.

Probably because I don’t like the things everyone else does. Just because I prefer to stay home on a Saturday nights and not party like the rest, I am crazy. Just because I go extra mad over shopping unlike them, I am crazy. Just because I prefer not to behave like the rest do, I am crazy.
And sometimes, at 3 o’clock at night, with the moonlight filtering in through the curtains, I’d think. I’d wonder if my “craziness” was the reason people chose to leave after some time. Was I so dismal?
And when you came, it was like fireworks all over. For some weird reason, you actually liked to spend time with me. You didn’t find me boring or crazy as the rest did. You made me laugh, and hell, I could see the truth in your eyes. You liked me too.
WHY?
Later, you told me you were gripped by me.
“But why me?”, I blurted out. “I’m just plain old me.”
You took both my hands in yours, and looked at me with those warm, light brown eyes I’d grown to love more than mine. “Because you were different. Everyone I saw, I could see girls struggling to copy each other, or the latest trends. And then I found a girl who didn’t even care what people thought of her, and did things the way she wanted. How could I not fall for someone who respects herself & her independence more than that what others think?”

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4 thoughts on “Crazy.

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