She shot me that look —
sideways, sharp, no room to hide.
“What are you talking about? You don’t owe me a damn thing.
I wrote what I wrote because it came.
I sent it because I wanted to.
And yeah — if you came across a couple I love yous in there,
it’s because I’m in love.
Simple as that.
What, you think reading a few sweet words gives you
some kind of power over me?
Screw that.
Yes — I love you.
Fully.
Proudly.
Happily.
It’s mine.
Yours to hear, not to hold.
Your doubt, your silence, your disgust —
none of it makes me wish I’d said less.”
I let out a breath.
She was holding her pencil like a weapon.
“Say sorry again,” she said,
“just try.”
“No,” I told her.
“I’m just bracing myself.
I don’t love you.”
Something shifted on her face.
Not pain.
Not even anger.
Just this quiet disbelief —
like she’d just discovered a kind of manshe hadn’t thought possible.
She turned.
Walked away.
Not a trace of hesitation in her step.
Not a shadow.
That day, as she turned the corner and vanished,
I winced,
knowing no blade would ever be honedas cruelly
as the one lodged in my heart.
