I keep thinking about the night I first told you I loved you, and how you said, “You know I love you, but not in that way.”
You told me once–no, maybe it was a few times–that you didn’t believe in love. If that’s your belief, so be it, but I want to know why you chose me even when you didn’t.
The way you “loved” me was unlike anything I’ve seen before. For a while, after it ended, I missed it all: The openness between us; the sound of your voice saying my name, your breath on my neck; the feeling of lust and love, how it conflated, how I had a hard time telling the difference.
For the longest time, I just wanted to be enough for you. I wanted to be the person you wanted. But you had no intention of keeping me close, and that’s okay. You couldn’t make up your mind, and that’s okay.
I don’t want you to think of me every time you use the polaroid of my naked body as a bookmark. I don’t want you to send me “I miss you” texts whenever you’re in your feelings. I don’t want answers.
If I meant something to you, if I meant anything – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.