It always screwed him up, spending time with her. All he could think about for a day or two after was her, how he liked her so much. Usually it had a cheerful effect on him but sometimes it made him downright gloomy.
That was half the trouble, he thought about things relating to her way too much, and depending on how he was feeling it was either good or bad. Sometimes he even doubted whether she was genuine, arguing and counter arguing. He’d think about is for obscenely long periods of time but one thing was certain, it always ended with guilt, remorse and self loathing. It was funny in a twisted way, arguing with self and loosing.
“ I love you”, she said. Love had never been proclaimed to him so effortlessly, so guilelessly and that scared him. Telling people things like this gives them immense power over you, to hurt you, which he felt they always exercised. So the only thing he could barely manage was “Me too”. Probably she realized this because she never touched the subject again, or maybe because she had been so disappointed by his response or rather the lack of it.
It broke him though, the platonic way in which she had meant it.He wished they could be more. He hated the fact that it wasn’t possible although at times felt grateful for it. She deserved better than him . But then what exactly do you call better? Who defines better anyways?
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