If she were an artist, he was her paintbrush. 

If she were a bird, he was her wing.

And if she were a candle, he was her flame.

He was her catalyst for potential. And through that she thrived.

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If only he knew how much she loved him. If only his heart was big enough to feel that and envelope the love she wanted him to accept. The fire that raged between them was violent but always temporary, and if only he saw that. It wasn’t complicated what happened between them. It was young love. Nothing more, nothing less.

They were lucky to experience it. They were grateful to feel it. But was s...

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