“Telepathy”, she said. “Probability”, I thought. 

She tried to explain to me how and when she fell in love with me. I pretended to understand, hoping she won’t notice. 

Now, drowning in her love— I refuse to believe it’s probability. I want to move towards her, fiercely, in every aspect of my existence. I did not get that chance before I chose to love her, and I want to make up for all of it.

I love her consciously, with all my intent. There are no ifs and buts— what if I went to Germany instead? No. I’m here and I love her. What if I met someone else along the way? No. I’m here and I love her. What if she makes me feel a certain way sometimes? I refuse to explain that feeling to myself. But still—No. I’m here and I love her. 

This is not chance. This most certainly isn’t chance. This isn’t a divine intervention. No god can make me feel the love in my bones that I feel for her. We’re not soulmates. This is not premeditated. This didn’t happen randomly.

So, I say, fuck the probability. I’ll do it myself. I’ll love her myself. I’ll want her all by myself. I’ll protect her myself. She’s my territory. She’s my precious pot of gold. 

I’ll weave the strands of my fate until they spelled her name. With all the love I enforce on her— I’ll make her a museum of things I love. I’ll love the parts of her she thinks are unlovable.

I will love her with every bit of conscience I was born with.