You're crying. I hate seeing you cry; it's a horrible feeling, like kicking a puppy. Or, in this situation, it's more like watching someone else kick a puppy and not do a damned thing about. Or watch someone drown a kitten and hear it cry out for someone to help it, and I feel like I'm just sitting here, watching someone kick a puppy and drown a kitten. I want to reach out and comfort you, but I can't, because right now I hate you almost as much as I hate myself.

Don't get me wrong, I love you, even after what you did to me, but I hate you at the same time. Don't ask me to explain it.

I hate you because you're crying over him. I hate you because you let him mean so much to you that he made you cry. I mean, I hate him, too, because he made you cry, but fuck, you practically let him make you cry or some shit like that.

"Why are you here?" I ask, and I nearly flinch at the harshness of my tone, how blunt I'm being, but I can't help it.

"I thought you'd understand," you whisper. "I thought you'd get it."

Now it's like you've punched me in the stomach. Worse, it's like you've ripped me open, stolen all of my organs, everything that keeps me alive, filled me with straw, and stitched me back up again. Yes, I do, in fact, understand what it feels like to have my heart broken, because you broke my heart. You broke my heart when you left me there in that hospital bed, when you didn't even try to help me. You broke my heart when you told me that we weren't meant to be together because I was a little clingy, even though you knew what I'd been through.

"I'm not your boyfriend." Not anymore.

"I know." You sound so broken, so empty, and I hate my words. I hate that I'm not even trying to make you feel any better.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, and you have the nerve to laugh.

"No you're not."

And you're right, I'm not. I can't help but feel as though you got what you deserve.

"Do you love me?" you ask suddenly, and I freeze.

Yes, I want to scream. Yes, I love you. I love you more than he ever could.

"Do you love me?" I whisper, and I want to take the words back the second they leave my lips.

"Maybe," you answer.

But maybe isn't good enough.

"Thanks for clearing it up, then," I practically growl through gritted teeth, and I stand up to leave.

But you grab my arm, and I stare down into your blue eyes, those incredible, glowing orbs that I fell in love with. I know that you're going to answer, and I promise myself that if you say no, I won't hurt over you anymore. I won't lie awake at night with tears leaking from my eyes, thinking of you. I won't. I just need you to tell me that you don't love me.

And instead of giving me the no I want, the no I'm dreading, you whisper, "I don't think I ever stopped."

I ignore how unbearably cliché that is, and I kiss you, because at that moment, there's nothing else I can do.

"Don't leave," I demand, my lips brushing against yours. "Don't leave me ever again."

This time, there is no hesitation in your voice when you reply, "I promise."