The scent of rain lingered in the air as I stepped into the old bookstore café, the wooden floor sighing under my weight like an old friend who had been holding their breath. The soft glow of the hanging lights brushed against rows of forgotten spines, their stories tucked away as if waiting for someone to believe in them again. But tonight, I didn't come for stories—I came to remember.

I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care... But it's so cold, and I don't know where

I closed my eyes, remembering our last evening here, flickering behind my eyelids. He had sat across from me, fingers restless as they traced patterns on the table, eyes searching mine for an anchor I could never be. I had smiled that smile I knew charmed him, hoping it would say what I couldn't.

I moved to the window seat where we always sat, running my hand over the fabric worn from our many hours. The city outside was a blur of moving lights, dissonant and oblivious to the quiet sorrow inside me. My reflection stared back, eyes shadowed with a truth I could no longer deny.

And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright... I'm just so tired to share my nights.

I could still feel the warmth of his touch, the way he'd reach for me like he was collecting proof that I was real, that we were real. I had let him believe in that illusion because it was easier than explaining that I felt affection like a firefly's glow—bright, fleeting, never enough to guide anyone home. 

The memory of our last conversation burned behind my chest. He had asked, voice thick with desperation, "Why can't you let me in?" And I, the lover who could adore but not commit, had looked away, silence as my answer.

I wanna cry, and I wanna love... But all my tears have been used up.

A tremor passed through me. I pressed my palm flat against the table, grounding myself in the cold. Love had always been something I watched from the edge, beautiful but suffocating, like a song whose lyrics I could sing but never understand. I wanted him to stay, keep brushing his fingers against mine, and share laughter over late-night coffee. But I knew deep down he wanted more—a promise I couldn't offer.

On another love, another love... All my tears have been used up.

The weight of his parting words haunted me. "I need someone who feels it, too." He'd left with a look that crumpled my defences, a regret that carved deep. He deserved more than moments and half-commitments wrapped in sweet gestures. I had never wanted to hurt him, but wanting was never enough. 

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight... But my hand's been broken one too many times.

My fingers twitched at the memory of reaching out for him as he turned away. I had always been better at playing the role of the lover who didn't need anything back. It was easier than admitting that behind the bravado, behind the teasing smiles and fleeting touches, was a fear of something I couldn't name.

I'd sing a song that'd be just ours... But I sang 'em all to another heart.

Regret draped over me like the rain outside. I had wanted to love him in the way he deserved and be the kind of partner who could promise forever. But the songs of my heart had been given away long before him in pieces that never came back whole. Now, with no more to give, I sat in this hollow place, tasting the bitterness of what-ifs.

And I wanna cry, I wanna fall in love... But all my tears have been used up.

I glanced at the seat he used to take, now a reminder of something that might have been. My fingers traced invisible words on the table, silent apologies behind my lips waiting to be shouted out into the universe. It was too late for more. My heart had loved him the only way it knew how—briefly, beautifully, and not enough.

On another love, another love... All my tears have been used up.

The rain outside softened into a whisper, like a song only the brokenhearted could hear. And I sat there, the aromatic lovergirl who learned too late that sometimes the truest love is the one you can't hold onto.