My first love occurred later, than my true love.

They say, first love is the person you always compare to everyone else... the person you will never get over with. And here I was, sitting beside him, holding onto something unjustifiable—listening to the rhythm of jazz, yet immoral melody. He looked at me with intent, not knowing my deepest feelings for him, and smiled like an old friend—his smile that would always leave a crack in my heart.

Tears fell from my eye invisibly. I didn't mean to feel this way. I didn't mean to fall in love again after four years of adoring my true love.

One year ago, I was the one nagging this matter. Now, I was the one dragged to this condition. My poor true love, he can only cry. I had impaired him like a soldier winning his war. I took all our hopes, our dreams, our togetherness.

But hey, can he really put all the blame on me? He wasn't here, even if he could, he didn't. Now, tell me, am I the only one to be blamed?

"Hey, I'm going."

The bus halted and off he went. I tried not to look at the window, but I did. And there they were, my first love and his true love, celebrating their love like always. Yes, things should end like this. At this bus stop I shall move on and go back to where I truly belong. At this bus stop I shall abandon my one-sided sentiment. At this bus stop I shall erase my memories with him—all the late conversations, all the funny jokes untied, all the beatific song he sang, all those annoying, yet heartwarming tease; all of it.

I smiled and looked away, "Honey, I'm going back to you."