Agatha

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It was a bright night in July when Agatha decided to take off her clothes and jump into the breezy lake.

No one saw it, except me.

Coated her white pale skin, it was a flowery, wrinkly dress from her 26th birthday. The dress inherited the only fond memory she had from her 26th. The rest was vaguely boring and of course, predictable.

It was that age when you realised that you are too old to messing around, but in the same time too young to settle. It was never proper, and the questions remain forever.

I love that dress, anyway.

That night, Agatha bit more than she could chew. Her lips were politely shut, but her mind was this graphic, mazed palace resembling lust and unfortunately, trust.

Inside her thoughts, there were decisions waiting to be made, answers waiting to be discovered, and love waiting to be freed.

On the water, Agatha paddled her hands swiftly. Puzzled, but firm enough to accommodate her needs.

The pain was crystal clear, but she built this repelling fortress of consciousness. And the flow was voluntarily undermined.

Her pride is too big sometimes it hurts. Ambitions are poisonous; they pigeonholed her life into a maze of plans and solutions. Her confidence was fuelled with achievements, bundle of man-made recognitions.

Poor Agatha. In the same time logic whipped her mind with brutal truths, her emotions were the friendliest strangers inside, waiting to be invited.

Lived a life full of reasons, for Agatha, vulnerability is hypocrisy. But to feel, is a luxury.

Agatha stopped for seventeen seconds to seized breath.

In that exact moment, she finally felt like a human. I sat on the the sad pier.

Secretly trading doubts with faith.

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