I was wide awake somewhere around 2 A.M., and that's when I realized.
What I said was a lie.
I didn't hate him.
I couldn't hate him.
He could ignore me, or continue to insult me, or freaking murder everyone I cared about.
But I'd still love him.
Not him, as in, present him.
No, I love the old Newt, the "knight in shining armor" Newt.
I love the "protector" Newt, the "comforting" Newt, the "guardian" Newt.
No matter what he did, or what I did, that feeling would never leave me. I knew it.
Because whenever I cried about Newt, the only person I wanted to hold me was Newt.
When I wanted to beat Newt to the ground for being an idiot, I wanted Newt to be my partner in crime.
It was a terrible love, a forbidden love, a "Romeo and Juliet" love.
But it was love just the same.
And I couldn't help but wonder, if maybe, just maybe.
His was love too, just misunderstood.
Hate and love aren't really that different, after all.
Hate and love, they cure each other.
