Love is like eating a caramel bar. You walk-away promising yourself that one is enough, that you had enough. But it doesn’t matter, because the next thing you know, you’re halfway towards it. You long for him, you miss him. Until one becomes two, three, to empty. He is empty. And you look around the corners of this brown box, convincing yourself that there’s gotta be more, there’s gotta be something left of him. It’s then you realize that all that you are is just a sugar rush. That love is not here to stay because there were never lows, but only highs. The feeling of being high on his sweetness. But its just temporary, you are temporary.
I guess I understand now that I am in love with Caramel Bars. Because underneath its rough edges and “peanutty” textured layer is a place for a familiar softness. A place that will always have a home in my heart. And everything else — the warmth, sweetness, and perfection — makes me want to need it, forever. I know now that he is my caramel bar, and I love him.
Confessions of a teenage ambivert 