You were not the first person to hold my hand or stroke my hair. You were not the first person to fuck me. You are not the first person I’ve woken up next to and smiled.
Perhaps part of why you like falling in love so much, is that it’s kind of like a grown-up version of playing pretend. You can reimagine yourselves, become new people, and then conjure up whole worlds that belong just to the two of you. You can go on adventures together, solve mysteries, save the world. You can find hidden treasures and then lose them.
We talk and giggle and then we talk some more and burst into genuine laughter. We argue. We engage. Our eyes light up as we willingly share thoughts and ideas and amusing anecdotes.
I wish I liked you. You’re great, you’re everything I would be happy to want. But you’re not quite what I want right now.
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A writer is controlling. She’s used to commanding the characters to do as she likes, she is accustomed to manipulating the words that come out of their mouths. She has invented whole worlds and your genuine attempts at replicating them will not be quite enough for her.
She lay in bed alone and doubted that he ever thought of her.
I wish I could hate you. It’d be such a delightfully perfect cliché. The righteous girlfriend hating that bitch who broke her relationship, and then broke the boy. “How could he choose her?”
“No, you’re not. You’re simple. I always understood you.”
“You didn’t. Maybe you thought you did. You understood a version of me.”
Her eyes are made up too. Big eyes, dark lips. You watch her flip her short hair. Everything about her is small, you decide – she’s her hair, her skirt. She’s short. Petite. Eventually you hear her voice. She speaks too loudly, she swears far too much. You’re intrigued. You walk over.