To Grab or Not To Grab A Knife

Citylights drenched in mild acid rain when we were standing against the window of a room on the 16th floor. Your hands were cupping my face drenched in tears.

Oh well, on my defense, I don't normally lower my guard and break down in front of someone I just met - if that whatsoever answers your curiosity why I did the thing I did. It's because you kept on telling me I was the best thing ever happened to you. I actually didn't know what to react that I then imitated corny, so-called romantic movies I've ever watched, so I was just sort of sobbing. I could've laughed, which would've been so much easier, but on the second thought, a forced laugh would only sound horrible.

I saw your eyes when you said it. I half anticipated they were icy cold like so many people before you who had paraphrased your words. But all I could find in your pair of dark eyes was warmth. So warm that it melted your tears. You were so fragile and damn valiant risking your pride by saying such thing right to my face.

I was instantly and strongly driven to push you away. I was tempted to rush you to pack up your suitcase and get the hell out of my life. To stab that sharp knife right into your heart for all and for once. For a split second I thought it would be divine to treat myself an act of vengeance.

But I couldn't find my knife. Even when I finally saw it between the ruins of my walls of defense, I didn't have enough strength to grab it. Let alone lifting it. Since you were so very weak before my eyes, I was not supposed to exterminate an unarmed opponent, was I?