I told him he complained too much and that he fiends for my attention like an addict. I told him I wouldn’t mind paying some, but only once the stakes were raised. (I told him in my head.)
I realized that everything about him equaled perfection, all if it… oh, except for he himself. My closest friends could see it. They could look into the crystal ball called our friendship and tell me today that my life with him would be miserable and fake and worthless and dry and miserable. And I knew they were right. But who doesn’t want to try their hand at the best laid plans?
There are only so many things I can say to a whining child. I’m sorry babe, oh no!, who did my love wrong?, I can’t believe it!, he doesn’t know who he’s messing with!, come get a hug, don’t pay attention to it, you’re awesome!, I love you (but I don’t), I’m sorry…
I ran out of lines and I never had the emotion to back them up anyway. I tried to play the part till it became me… you know, fake it till you make it? But I’m so far removed, oh-SO-far removed, because I’ve felt love before- or at least I think so- and this does not hold a candle to what I had… and even that might have been a counterfeit romance.
And this piece is selfish, because it is only in the relatability of her writing that a writer gives of herself to her readers. And this shit I’ve just typed is anything but that. I apologize to you… and yea, to him too.
I’m used to that you know; pretending to care about his feelings.
