I wanted her to like me.
I wanted her to be the one I could play with. The one I could turn to when things are wrong, and expect a kiss or a hug or maybe other things. I wanted her to be the one I could love and cuddle with when everything seems right and the world is happier than it usually seems to me. I wanted to color things with her, smile with her, dance with her, be with her.
She's fun, isn't she? That's why I wanted her to like me. To want me. We don't even have much in common. I like her a lot, I really do.
But then, she picked you. She likes *you*.
Not me.
And you know what's really funny about that? It's not even really funny, I'm just saying so.
You didn't even like her and now it's like you're in love.
I should be happy for you two. You're happier than you ever were around her.
Were you mad because she liked me and not you? Were you mad because you liked her, and you thought she picked me over you? Were you mad because we were happy and you weren't? Were you jealous?
I guess you don't have to be now.
I should have noticed how mad you were. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened. Because there's an ache in my chest I can't get rid of every time I think of you and her together. Everything she could have been, you were to me, now that I think of it.
I always played with you. I always turned to you. I always got a hug, occasionally a kiss, and you've always loved me. You always made me feel better about things.
That's another funny thing that isn't really funny, I guess. The way I wanted her to be what you already were to me.
I think it was because I thought she would have loved me the way you never would.
...But I guess there's not much to it, now.
I wanted her to be the one I could play with. The one I could turn to when things are wrong, and expect a kiss or a hug or maybe other things. I wanted her to be the one I could love and cuddle with when everything seems right and the world is happier than it usually seems to me. I wanted to color things with her, smile with her, dance with her, be with her.
She's fun, isn't she? That's why I wanted her to like me. To want me. We don't even have much in common. I like her a lot, I really do.
But then, she picked you. She likes *you*.
Not me.
And you know what's really funny about that? It's not even really funny, I'm just saying so.
You didn't even like her and now it's like you're in love.
I should be happy for you two. You're happier than you ever were around her.
Were you mad because she liked me and not you? Were you mad because you liked her, and you thought she picked me over you? Were you mad because we were happy and you weren't? Were you jealous?
I guess you don't have to be now.
I should have noticed how mad you were. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened. Because there's an ache in my chest I can't get rid of every time I think of you and her together. Everything she could have been, you were to me, now that I think of it.
I always played with you. I always turned to you. I always got a hug, occasionally a kiss, and you've always loved me. You always made me feel better about things.
That's another funny thing that isn't really funny, I guess. The way I wanted her to be what you already were to me.
I think it was because I thought she would have loved me the way you never would.
...But I guess there's not much to it, now.