This is not a love story.
It can't be, not when you're holding candles over me. I wait eagerly for the dripping wax and the burning because this is warmth, I say. This is warmth.
But I remember how it felt talking to you and I remember what you were like in the beginning and I remember catching your glances and I-
I love you, and sometimes I think that maybe you love me too.
But that doesn't always mean it works. That's not how this works.
You casually painted an idea of love - of us - and let me keep it.
Do you ever think about it?
It doesn't matter - what was once tenderness is now a reminder that we broke each other and that love always hurts.
There will be someone who loves me before and after they learn what I am, but it isn't you. I can't keep lying to myself - it isn't you.
Whatever this is - it is not love.
Let's start over.
Everything's the same but this time, you don't leave.