End Point to All Pitstops

I used to write about a guy whose eyes look like my favourite black tea that's steeped for too long with skin the colour of iced caramel macchiato. His name tasted familiar, like a snippet of a long journey to elsewhere. His image that instilled itself in my mind was a grandeur impression that did not sit well with reality. An impossible perfection that came with terrible attributes once it uncloaked itself: an accumulation of anxiety. What he actually was to me was a projected idea out of my desperation for romance.

After the horrible debacle with that horrible unrequited impossible romance, I arrived to him. My guy. The end point to all pitstops. The guy whose eyes are made out of kindness and warmth, so far from the bleakness and the bitterness of overly steeped black tea. The guy whose skin is exceptionally tough but paradoxically extraordinarily soft at the same time, very unlike artificially sweetened caramel macchiato that left me with unpleasant taste on the top of my mouth. The guy who argued with my accumulated anxiety by making them argue with themselves and nulling themselves out.

He is not a projection, nor is he an idea, though he is the most ideal. My desperation for romance and my search for comfort came to an end after we mould ourselves into each other. What we sought in regards to romance, love, companionship, and partnership found its match in one another. In the end, there is no need for me to write any falsely concepted image of him because he does not require all of that, nor he deserves to be idealised into something far off from the magnificent human being that he is.