If. It’s two little letters and one short syllable. Be that as it may; these two little letters hold the power equivalent to the Great Greek Gods, shooting lightning bolts down from the heavens into my heart over and over and over and over. It’s a relentless being spawned from the depths of the second level of Dante’s Hell, tearing down the sacred walls that took me so long to build up, getting to my very emotions. It’s a word that holds more meaning than I had previously given it. But only when you use it. You give the word its underlying meaning. Oh look, there’s my hope, existing as a candle in the wind in a in the surrounding darkness, the only speck of light I can see for miles upon miles of empty space. I can see it, glowing, glistening, with a small heartbeat like it’s alive, its light illuminating every corner of the visible spectrum of infinite galaxies. And then you whisper. And suddenly, the air thickens, ground rumbles, trembles, and a thousand horsemen charge in through the field, racing, faster and faster and faster. And you, leading the pack, give a great sigh of the one word which I beg you wouldn’t whisper and then *whoosh.* It’s out. I am in this field of nothingness without you there to support me like you said you would. And now because of one damn word you suddenly don’t want to be with me? Is it because I’m not the hottest guy ever? Because I’m naturally awkward? Because I can sometimes be a bit narcissistic? You and I both already know the answers. I felt like you were A and I was B, that nothing could separate us. But you go down the line to separate us to A and Z by using this one word separated by three letters. Little did I know that you would do that. Just remember that the only reason that we can’t be A and B again is because you decided to separate us by two little letters.