On love.

9 Aug

I cheat.

I’ve cheated on every boyfriend I’ve had in the last 11 years. Sometimes only once, sometimes every chance I got.

In all of those instances, I was never the one in love. Or I was young or stupid or bored or tired. If I ever loved them, it was long after they started loving me.

Now, I’m on the other side of that. I’ve never loved someone who didn’t love me and it’s terrifying. I’m not handling it like I assume a 25 year old should, I’m seventeen again and I’m so incredibly self-conscious and unsure of myself. I wasn’t like this before I knew it was love.

I can’t bring myself to say it. The time I brought a bottle of whiskey over to his old place he shouted that he loved me. When I found Space Jam on the internet for us to watch he said it again. I know that it’s not true. And I know he’s not ready to hear it from me, but the longer I hold it inside the more likely that it will burst out of me at the wrong time. I hold it in and it depresses me and everything becomes a fight because I know I can’t say it and I know I won’t hear it back.

And that’s the thing. That’s what makes it so awful, right? Knowing you’re the only one? Sometimes I can believe it’s true for both of us. When we sit in the dark and I creep my fingers into his hand or along his wrist, or when we accidentally dress the same, or when we wake up in the middle of the night and grasp at each other.

And then real life gets in the way again.

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