They could make a movie of us and it would be the most boring movie in the world, but the audience would still want us to get together at the end because they still want to believe in happy endings. Maybe I’m the only one that thinks that there’s some merit in saying how we feel rather than suppressing the truth for whatever reason – pride, self-preservation, apathy, the reasons that I’ve acknowledged to myself a thousand times and still trip over, running lists I’ve constructed about how wrong you are for me through my head, over and over again, like debris to hold onto in a storm. The thought of you extending kindness to someone else, let alone wanting them, is enough to drive me to madness. And yet I don’t see you caring. I don’t see you changing. It’s too much to ask for anything. I pray that this will be over, all the while seemingly doing everything in my power to put myself in danger. I have been so silly. I’ve been cruel to the extent that you ever still cared for me and I knew about it. But you don’t show me, and all this time, I feel still completely in the dark. The fact you never ask about me and you don’t want me to ask about you should say everything. It doesn’t even matter who you love. If it’s not me, that’s all I need to know.