It started with his tie. There was nothing extraordinary about it—just a sliver of black against his crisp, red shirt. She'd wanted to yank that tie for days, to jolt some sense into the man who professed his love for her, even after she couldn't say it back.

A few weeks later, in the office when they were working late, she'd fixated on his hands. That's when she'd noticed they were stubby and short, his nails rough and splintered, and she'd found a distinct pleasure in his imperfections. It was another reason to hate him, to justify not saying thank you when he finished her paperwork or brought her another cup of coffee—black, just the way she liked it. Instead, she'd put her nose in the air and found another ten reasons to ignore him.

The day he'd brought her chocolate—well, that was another story. It was the extra dark kind—the type of treat you'd bring a lover, not a friend—but she'd gobbled it down right in front of him, cursing her sweet tooth and the way it melted in her mouth. That was the day she'd finally wanted to say thanks, but he'd left early for a meeting—"see you tomorrow, kitten"— so she'd decided to hate the small things, like how his cologne hung in the air and the chocolate stuck to her teeth.

In the courtroom, she hated how he made her so damn good. As if there was no room for average, even when her feet ached from wearing heels.

When she visited "his" coffee shop—she hated him then too. She'd worn her best "this isn't a date dress," even though she knew it was and he smirked at her from across the table. And when he ordered them another round of drinks, she tried not to think about the way their knees touched, or the way her cheeks burned when he complimented her hair.

Then came the waiting. God, how she hated that too. There was a series of days when all she did was wait— for a trial to end, for the phone to stop ringing so they could steal a moment alone. Those were the longest minutes she could imagine, and she'd learned to hate time too, the way it played with her emotions and made her need him.

But the day she watched him die was when she hated him the most. She'd hated the way his chest rose and fell, even though he couldn't touch her, kiss her, hug her, comfort her. She'd hated him for making her leave the hospital—"there's nothing we can do," the doctor said—to live out her life while he slept. And she hated the way she felt every time she came to visit, like she was coming home, even though he wasn't really there.

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

-Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare