To my 25-year-old self

To my 25-year-old self,

At this point in time, you’re dead tired of and from your job and on most days you hate it. You dread going to work and you cry on some days before taking a deep breath, composing yourself, and heading to work. You are spiraling, and you are very unhappy.

Yet you choose to go to work every day because you still don’t know where you will head. The unknown scares you far more than being unhappy. You’d think maybe this is your quarter-life crisis happening right on cue.

And then you meet someone.

And this someone would be your mad love. What did one of your directors say? That you are entitled to that one mad love in your life, the kind of love that you would do everything for, be crazy for, and maybe even destroy yourself for. And that should be it. One mad love for the rest of your life, because this mad love should teach you a lot of life lessons.

He is someone who doesn’t fit your specs at all except for the fact that he wears glasses and he plays a musical instrument. He smokes (which is one of your deal breakers), he drinks, and aside from the fact that you work together, the list of things that you both have in common probably stops at ten. If this was high school, he’d be part of the ‘it’ crowd, the group of guys who act like they own the hallways, the ones who would sit at the sides and would rate the girls that pass by. And you, well, you know where you were in high school: Miss Goody Two Shoes, sometimes a wallflower, sometimes thrust in the limelight due to an academic achievement. The only times that your world would intersect with his is when he asks for help for his book report or when he wants to copy your homework. (Or when you would ask him for help for your drafting assignment because you hate it, and he’s good at it.)

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