Too Much

by Intrepid Inkweaver

You want to let him know he's not alone. You want to provide comfort beyond the words you said.

You want to tell him you love him.

You want to let him know he's not alone.

You want to say that maybe you won't grow old together, but at least you'll be together until the work finally kills you.

You want to provide comfort beyond the words you said.

Instead you walk away. To protect yourself. To protect him. To protect the friendship you've built with him brick by brick. Because in the end that's all you ever can be. Friends. The idea leaves a sour taste in your mouth. All the nights that you have spent and will spend awake thinking about things that will never be are more in vain than can ever be expressed.

Because you're not her—not sweet and innocent and good. You're a killer, cold and ruthless, not worthy of the love you crave.

You can't help but wonder if he contemplates what he cannot have as often as you do.

There are days when the voice in your ear is too much and there's nothing you wouldn't give to smash your phone and run until there's nothing left. The urge passes quickly, though, because this is your life. He is your life. You are so entwined with him that you're not sure where you end and he begins anymore. You couldn't function without him. You wonder sometimes if he has noticed how much you need him.

You'll keep on saving people—trying to make up for all the things you did in your past life—hoping beyond hope that someday he'll notice the light that he puts in your eyes. Until that day, you'll keep saying "Thank you" because you know that "I love you" will always be too much.