Whether or not I can ever bring myself to talk to you isn't about you. It has nothing to do with whether I like you or not; that would be too easy to answer. (Yes, yes, yes.) It isn't whether I want you to come back. (Please, just do.) It isn't about if your reply makes me happy; I was feeling so many things, I didn't know how to sort it out. (The predominant feeling was glee.)

What matters is me.

I don't know if I can do this again. Your company is positively thrilling to me, but you also know how to perfectly twist a knife in my stomach. I just managed to sew myself back up.