A story is a story no matter who tells it, a story of anger and hurt or a story of confusion and pain. How can we be in this together and not remember the same? My story is a story of storms and lies, but your story is a tale of confusion and blame. Whose is to blame for something we saw unfamiliar?

The way you told the story made it seem innocent, and maybe I was just hurt and angry to think your story was a lie, you told it how you felt it. Someone new had you, it is easy to assume that was the intent of the telling of my story, but it was not because I wrote the pages as they came.

Our stories were different, not the same. Reading your story at the time, was not right because we were so new to everything, why could I not let it go? Let you go? It seemed as though the only version I was willing to read was mine, but that was what I held most  because nobody had known. They just had to know my vision, but who knew my vision could be altered as I grew older? Storytelling has always been a strength of mine, now because I see things from your eyes, not everything is lies. The innocent does not exist in a story, it takes two to create this kind of wall we saw things as however, we did but to blame each other for being so young to know how to put ourselves into each other’s skin is like blaming somebody for something they had not yet learn. Telling our story brings out a million smaller stories that help tell a bigger story of two kids who tried to do something, but failed and blamed one another for not seeing an invisible chapter. Two eyes and somehow I could not see the damage my one side story did, two eyes and somehow you could not see that I tried hard to understand, though it could not be us to carry the blame because it has been two years since our story ended and one year since another story began. Now, our stories go on because stories never die even if you burn them they will always be a story, but now they go on with other people and yourself, and one day you will share those stories with somebody who can read them the way I now read stories. We had one friendship, one relation and when it had closed and we moved onto a new chapter, our stories fell through and I blamed you, now I see. Hopefully, now you see that not all my words were literal, not all the chapters were critical. Though all this time has passed, our book of lies and whys still rests on the shelves in my mind. As the days go on my eyes realize more and more. How we should have, could have been different, but we were just too young.