Blink isn't mine. The other newsie isn't mine. Or maybe he is. I never thought of that one. He could be someone of my own invention. But then again, maybe not. Oh, I don't know. Go read, and stop asking questions.
Don't tell me this now. I don't want to hear it. I can't. Don't say it. Please, just don't. Why are you telling me this? Why now?
I don't want to know what the end of your sentence is. What name will you give? I don't even know if I want it to be mine or someone else's. I'm so confused. The thrill when I see you, when I see her. The same? Identical.
I think.
You apologize, and I watch your tears as you explain that you couldn't hole it inside any longer, that you thought you might explode. I know what you mean. I wish I could pour out everything, but what would I say? I do not know. I do not recognize my own thoughts.
And now you say them, those words I've been waiting for my whole life, those words I hoped against hope I'd never hear.
I love you, Blink. I love you……
Why? Why did you tell me? Why did you have to tell me? I'm not ready to hear this. I'm not ready at all, for anything. All I can do is watch as my tears of frustration mix with yours into a sea of bitterness, drowning everything.
And maybe, someday, it will drown me too.