I think I love you. Deep down, I’m pretty sure you love me too. Why else would we be simply unable to just be friends? You told me yourself that it’s physically impossible for you to quit me, and despite having a girlfriend, you don’t think you would want to quit me. How teen-drama of us. Yet you’re still with her. I can’t hate her, because none of this is her fault. It’s ours. Moreso yours, because you made the first move. You always did. I never intended to do anything with you because it wasn’t my place and I had accepted that it never would be. You cheated on her with me, and I still have trouble recovering from it. When I said I couldn’t stand to be the other woman, you simply said “that’s not fair. Technically you came first. You were always first.” Funny how it doesn’t feel that way.
You’re breaking my heart here, buddy. Breaking it into tiny little pieces.
Will we always cling to this unexplainable attraction between us? Will our hearts and minds always hang in this cursed purgatory state between friend and lover? I don’t know if I can handle it. If I ever get a wedding invitation to a wedding that includes you but not be, I’ll probably have a hernia.
I know that technically I should hate you, or at least feel some sort of irritation or disgust with the fact that you’re a cheater. Usually I’m all logic and let my brain do the majority of the thinking; things tend to work out better when I do so. So why the fuck won’t my brain overcome my heart here? I still can’t grasp the fact that technically you’re a cheating bastard. You told me I deserved better than you anyhow while I was crying on your porch upset about what happened that weekend.
But doesn’t she deserve better as well?
I can’t decide whether or not it would be justice or spite that would lead me to informing her of what we’ve done.
For now I’ll just stay quiet.
I never thought I’d be caught up in drama like this. All of this love/romance/sex bullshit. I wish my brain would kick in to overdrive and make me see sense again. I really hate love sometimes.