I am so tired.
So completely exhausted that at any moment I might break.
I talked to you today. We haven’t talked in a couple of days, not since I spent the night at your house. We went jogging at the track. I should have just kept on my own route, but you had my knife and I wanted it back. So I met you at the track and we walked a few laps. We talked about Valentine’s Day, about relationships, and such.
I should have just kept running my route.
You all but said that you were never interested in a relationship with me.
I’ve liked you since August. We would hang out, talk, go out to parties. I’d listen to your troubles, and you’d hug me when I had tough times. You’d tell me I am hot, that I am pretty, just make me feel good about myself. You’d flirt and I’d blush at your crude jokes. You would always call me when you had a bad and the girl you were talking to turned you down. I’d listen to you talk about how “you’ve never met a nice girl.” Well what the fuck am I, Pat? Will I never be good enough for you? Will you ever see that I have been there for you through thick and thin? Even when you didn’t talk to me for a month, I acted like everything was fine.
And I hate it. I hate that you make me smile. I hate that I can’t stay mad at you, that you can go days without talking to me and I can’t go an hour without thinking about you. I hate that you tell me about the girls you like when I thought I made it clear that I care about you. I hate that you make me miserable.
I hate that I can’t hate you.
I am so tired, Pat.