The danger of wedding a song to a specific person is that every freaking inch of your heart twinges, hurts, and sings when the music ever comes up again.

You did it unintentionally. Who would want to make a song so exclusively reserved for a person you used to endear?

Who didn’t see it coming, when they felt that nicotine, heroin, and morphine rushing through over Camila’s infatuated red, got drunk and in love over Lauv’s yellowish bliss, sobbed while wishing nothing but the best for each other over Adele’s melancholy blue, or painfully got used to being in each others’ history over Capaldi’s pensive gray?

Every touch of the notes was his gaze. Every strum and shift of the barre was her blush. The first verse was about your countless insignificant walks, from the most forgettable stroll along the dusty corridor to the one where your hands accidentally but faithfully brushed against each other. Your forehead rested on hers when the bridge built up. He leaned in when you heard the chorus comes.

It could be pure Clarity, a Starving craving, or a nasty Beautiful Trauma; and you thought it was Meant To Be, your Wildest Dream coming true, and that he’d run Back To You. But things fell apart. You don’t voice the same lyrics anymore; melodies fell off key; strings were cut, scattered on the floor with all your teardrops, heartbreaks, self-destructions, and shards of memories.

That’s how you know you messed up, allowing a Million Reasons to stab you in the heart, permitting your history to be audible and thus inevitable. Wedding a song to a person is treacherous since it will never sound the same.

Or worse, it sounds all the same no matter how long it’s been.