SofarLunar

"I endured this pain day after day, drowned in the ocean of tears that weren't allowed to leave my eyes. I held on for long, but they didn't love to see that, they stepped upon my head, content to watch me drown in the emotional mess they caused."

Seven relationships and all were doomed from the start. The same issues and the same outcome, all the girls he loved left him, cheated on him, stabbed him in the back. 

Was he hexed? Was he really the problem? Why did they never last? Chang Wu didn't know. All he knew was that, they were breaking his heart to smaller pieces every time they walked out of his life because he couldn't 'afford' them. 
 
He'd tried everything to the extent everyone called him a simp for women who wouldn't even do half of what he'd done for them. 'Why were all middle class women the same?' Why hadn't he met one that wouldn't push the burden of financial responsibilities on his shoulders. The more he thought of it, the more he bore hate, until he decided to give up on them, and aim for something higher. 


Dating a rich woman was his next step. As impossible as it sounded and difficult to achieve, he thought the woman on the magazine cover that caught his attention would actually love him, not because of money because she already had that. There were problems, he had to live falsely to catch her eye and watch out for potential threats to avoid the truth from getting exposed, but how long would he pretend to be the opposite of what he truly was? How long would he lie? How long would he continue to live in fear? And most importantly, how would he put an end to the facade without getting his dream woman hurt?

Why I hate Middle Class Women

Xin slid his hand into the pocket of one of his old jeans. It was soothing to feel the packet he searched for in there. He knew he used to be just fine without it, but now Jessica was gone, and he had nothing but his old lifestyle left.

He moved to the balcony of a concrete ledge, square rough edges and a rusty rail, which was his oasis, and he filled whatever space his empty flower pots did not occupy.

Below, the city flowed in its tense way, bustling and honking, but six floors up. He was far enough removed from it to be a passive observer, not troubled by its strife.

Smoke filled his lungs and blankets his mind in rapture, desire and satisfaction. It was his escape. It brought a sweet rush to his fingers as he lit it up and watched as the tube before his lips filled with the white tendrils of burning toxins.

Part II