I enjoy conversations. I like to talk, I like to share. I like to hear certain stories from certain people. I absorb the shared information and reject insignificant ones. I like listening to their stories. We, whether we admit it or not, want to be heard as well and sometimes, we don't just need someone who will hear us; we want a particular person to listen to us. We save the stories, and we can't wait to tell that person. We wait patiently for the moment that we tell them, and wait for their reactions and when that splendid moment comes it'll be like as if a thorn has been pulled out from us. We have felt like breathing clean air, for being able to spill out the stories their responses was a sign of relief, a sign of joy that someone is willing to give a listening and a sympathizing ear. However it's not always like that. It's just depressing when we realize at the end of the day that we're the only ones who want that conversation, that they aren't as interested as we expect them to be. They don't care if you got into a fight with your mother, or how you haven't slept for days because of work, or how badly you want a haircut. They won't tell you, you'll just feel it along with their cold "Ohs" and "Okays" Because the awful truth is, they love that conversations, but like us they want a particular person to have it with them and sadly, it's not us.