taken

.

She asked her if she'd ever really felt it, felt it so much that it tears her inside out.

Felt it enough to lose sleep, to lose hope, to lose life. Enough to be so obsessed about it. 

She said no, that time.

She does not know him enough, and he surely does not know her. As it is, only a flimsy piece of technology bridged them together.

And here she is, staring at his face, and all she wants to do is just tear that ring out. It looked beautiful on his finger, like it always belonged there, but it only made her feel that her world is coming to an end.

It feels like a slap in her face, and this disgusts her since she knows she does not deserve to feel such anger, such sense of vindication. Disgusts since she did it again, unknowingly falling hard for the wrong person again: a person anyone is prohibited to love because he is taken. 

She guessed she already knew. She can see it from his smiles. She can sense it in the way he looked so assured, so at peace with himself. Surely that person could not be that happy alone; he is in love, and happily at peace with it.

Thus, she blamed the other girl. Why make him this way, when he can not be loved? Why make him so happy, which only drew her to him?

And at the back of her mind she asked himself: is this obsession enough?

.

.

.