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I never knew silence could be this terrifying. I never despise the empty side of my bed this much. I have always find comfort in silence. But, ever since you walked into my life, you painted my room with colors and noise, and I've never loved the bustling crowds this much ever since you came. You gave me love and unfamiliarity and I thought it was a good thing—I thought it was. But my messed up self always find its own way to leak out of the door. I tried to fix them all away so they won't taint you too, but before they could reach your toes you walked out of my door—scared and disgusted—and all that is left is silence. And I hate you for making me hate the silence. I hate you for giving me something and then take it back afterwards. I hate you for disturbing the life I once contented to have. I never despise the empty corners of my room like this. I hate them because I could still see you there, smiling at me like you love me enough. I never despise myself this much. I hate you. I hate you for making me feel this way.
