It's so fucking hard to stay tough. Sam knows me better than I'd like, and sometimes he peels off my skin, my flesh, my bones…
Looks at me with those big fluffy puppy eyes, almost as if he's asking me to hug him and cry at his shoulder.
He doesn't get it.
Why? A hug? What good would that do? No more than a night with one of those girls who I'm able to charm the pants off. It provides comfort, safety – for a short while.
It's not love and it doesn't make anything better.
What I want…
What I need… is to be needed.
I want him to be like I am: Alone. I want him to need me, as I need him.
But his happiness comes before mine.
I could never ask him to be miserable.