I will never tell you the amount of times I have posted a picture in the hopes of you seeing it. The amount of times I have gotten dressed up because I had a hunch I was going to run into you. The amount of times I have rewritten texts to you because I wanted to say the perfect thing, because I didn’t want the conversation to die prematurely.
I won’t tell you how many times I have stared at my phone, wondering whether I should send the first text but hoping you would do it before I had the chance.
I won’t tell you how it’s impossible for me to read your texts without smiling, even if the conversation is completely mundane, because I’m reading the words in your voice and nothing is more attractive than the sound of you.
I will never tell you how many times I’ve replayed voicemails you’ve left me or how many moments of ours I have memorized because I replayed them in my head over and over again for weeks.
I will never admit how I remember every compliment you have ever given me and every mean thing you have ever said to me word-for-word.
I will never tell you how cute you look in pictures or how good you look in black or how I’ve never met anyone more attractive, anyone who made me feel the way you make me feel.
I won’t tell you how many times your name has popped up when my friends asked me about my week or how many lyrics remind me of you while I’m driving in the car.
I won’t tell you how much it sucks when you cancel plans with me or take hours to answer my messages. I won’t tell you how much it hurts that you are never going to feel the same way about me and there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.
I will never admit how mad you make me, how frustrated, how heartbroken. I will never count the times I have had a sick stomach because of you or have come close to crying over you.
I will never list out all of the times you broke my heart with a sentence, with a Facebook post, with an Instagram picture, with an unanswered text. I will never admit how you could make or break my day with only a look.
I will never tell you how much it kills me to know you are practically a stranger now, to realize a relationship is never going to happen.
I will never let you know how much certain moments between us meant to me because you have probably already forgotten about them by now. You are probably already on your way to forgetting me.
I will never tell you how much of a hold you’ve had over me because nothing is going to come from it. Nothing is going to change between us. You are better off not knowing. I am better off pretending.