• I hate you.

    I hate how you make me feel.
    I hate how your words tear me up inside.
    I hate how you tease me.
    I hate how we’ve never touched.
    I hate how I know you live so close.
    And yet, there is nothing I can do about it.

    I hate how my heart is so confused.

    I hate that my soul leaps over the moon when it hears your name.

    Why is the gap between my head and my heart so big?
    Why can I not think reasonably when I think of you?
    Why did God send you to me, when this only ends in heartbreak?

    You were my first.

    My first crush.
    My first fascination.
    My first never-ending infatuation.
    My first fantasy.

    The first one, who I really thought I could spend the rest of my life with.
    The first one, who I really wanted to know absolutely everything about.
    The first one, who I really wanted to point out to all my friends and say, “He’s the one”.

    The first, whom I cried into my pillow until the tears wouldn’t come.
    The first, whom I screamed curses into the heavens as the rain fell about me.
    The first, whom I wrote my first love letter to.
    And watched as it burned into embers in the fireplace.

    But…
    But… I love how you write “my Bella” after every letter.
    I love how you know what I’m trying to say.
    When even I don’t know what to write.

    I love how you read between the lines.
    And see the real me.

    I love how you’ve never actually seen a picture.
    But you act although we’ve known each other before birth.

    I love how you talk about your dreams.
    And the fact that you are actually living them.

    I love the fact that you never hold back.
    I love the fact that you’ve sent me all those notes, expect nothing in return.
    I love the fact that you never lie to me.
    I love the fact that you actually care about my hopes.
    I love the fact that you actually listen.
    And not judge.

    I love how you grown since I’ve met you.
    I love how you give me little pieces of your heart at a time.
    I love how you tell me about your childhood.
    I love how you tell me about your happiest moments.
    I love how you tell me about your saddest.
    I love how you stubbornly put SINcerely for every postscript.
    Like you really could be anything less than an angel.

    Even though, I’m still a child.
    Even though, you’ve said you would wait until the end of damnation.
    Even though, you’ve been hurt before.
    Even though, you stubbornly flirt ‘till the cows come home.
    Even though, you… have said you have “commitment” issues.
    Even still.

    I think.
    I think I have to set you free.

    Because.
    Because… if you come back.
    Because… if you come back, you are truly mine.

    I think.
    I think.
    I think I might love you.

    And that is not okay.