In a way, you're glad he doesn't love you. It's better that way.
You're glad that he has someone that he wants to be strong for, even if that BITCH doesn't appreciate HOW MUCH HE LOVES HER.
...Calm down. Calm.
You're glad that...he smiles more often. You think that you helped with that.
And you're glad that despite how scary you can be, he's still your friend.
...Although.
Sometimes it's just not enough. So close, but so far. So close one can brush his fingers against the possibility.
It hurts, you know that well. And the sopor doesn't dull the ache that pulses in your chest, wrecking your think pan and your blood pusher with it's neurotic 'what if?'s'.
Maybe if you have just a little more...that's it...all better...
Except it isn't. Even in your drug induced haze, you still know he'll never love you. You have spent your life pining and hoping and wishing that he'd NOTICE HOW YOU FEEL.
Maybe you're better off alone.
Maybe you're better off dead.
It's better that way.