If I were drunk enough, I’d tell you that I think you love me. I don’t ask, you don’t say it, we both know why. I think I can tell sometimes by the way you watch out for me, the way you take care of me, the way you listen to me. We’re both in different places now than we were last year. I thought for so long that you were the one that got away. I walked through hell to lift you up when things got hard for you. You had your eye on someone else. You lied to me. Then when she left you for someone else, you cried to me. Once upon a time, I was head over heels for you. You wounded me. For a month after we came home from big island orders, I couldn’t stand to be in our old apartment. I avoided it. I’d crash on someones couch so as not to have a reminder. I drank like an alcoholic. I smoked weed. I tried Molly. I just wanted to forget. After that month, I realized that it isn’t who I am. I picked myself back up. I wouldn’t let myself feel defeated. Eight months later, you’re crying to me about what she did to you. I wanted to say, “Karma’s a bitch, Huh?” But instead I listened and I talked with you. I held on to the feelings that I had for you. Now, you make me soup when I’m hurting after surgery. You stayed and watched after me when I was on the verge of vomiting. You listened to me as I dealt with my own struggles. What I felt before has faded into something mild. The circumstances no longer permit. I don’t understand you. If I were drunk enough, I’d tell you that I think you love me. I’m not drunk enough.