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.
11 faves · Oct 14, 2014 5:05pm