I want to hate him. I should hate him. I've tried to hate him.
It would be so much easier, if I did.
I want to hate him for so many things.
For telling me he loved me, for making me believe it, and then suddenly, without warning changing his mind.
I wondered at first was it something I had said.
It might have been easier to accept if it had been.
He simply didn't love me. Had never loved me.
The hard part is trying to understand why he said it, when he never meant it.
Perhaps it wouldn't have broken my heart into so many pieces if he had told me from the start that he didn't love me. Perhaps... perhaps I would have been able to put myself back together again.
I hate it now... it not him... me not him.
I hate that every time I talk to him I am scared.
Scared of what he might say. Scared of what I might say.
Scared that I won't be able to hold up the poorly reconstructed walls he broke down when he let me believe he loved me, and that my already fragile heart, will finally irrevocably, and irreparably shatter once and for all, never again to be repaired.
I want to hate him for making me care, for breaking down the walls I so carefully built around myself, around my heart to prevent the damage once done occurring again.
For breaking down the walls, and leaving me defenceless in the wake of his deception.
I see him... talking, laughing, living, and I imitate his actions, pretending for those around me, none of them look deep enough to notice I am hollow, that the only thing inside of me is air, and chipped remains of my heart, and the walls that once protected it.
I want to hate him for all of it.
To hold him responsible, to blame him, hate him, despise him, loathe him.
In the end, all I can do is love him.
Watch silently, try as best I can to assure no harm comes to him, and that he continues to talk, and laugh, and live.
I cannot hate him. He cannot love me.
Friendship, will have to be enough.