Lovesick

Prologue

Lucas and I had been best friends since elementary school, but best friends or not, if I had told him I loved him, I knew for a fact he would have killed me. He had a temperament like that.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I even loved him. For as long as I've known him, he was always a brat. Rude, immature, conceited, unbelievably selfish. Nothing but flaws, and an overabundance of superficial charm. That's probably why girls hated his guts. Not at first, though. Never at first. Because he liked to mess around with them, he would always start by acting like a gentleman. He would lure them in, shower them with expensive gifts and cheap compliments, make them fall head over heels in love with him... and then, once he got bored, he would simply go back to his usual self, and that was more than enough to drive anyone away.

Well, I guess there were some who weren't as willing to let go of the fantasy he had sold them. There were some who thought they could change him for the better, and others who even came to like some aspects of his horrible personality. His childish behaviour could be somewhat endearing, I suppose, and maybe his utter lack of tact and consideration could be mistaken for mere honesty. But even then, it was only a matter of time. No one can stay in denial forever. Eventually, every last one of them would come to realise Lucas wasn't some broken thing they could fix, nor was he someone who wore a mask of indifference to hide a heart of gold. He was an asshole, and proud to be one. Who could possibly love the person he truly was? Yeah, sure, there was me. But I was an anomaly.

I did hate when he played those games, when he hurt other people for his own twisted idea of entertainment. But it wasn't really because I cared about the girls—to be honest, I didn't feel bad for them, I was just dead jealous. Even though, deep down, I knew I had no reason to be. Because he certainly cared about me more than he did about any of those girls. Maybe he saw me as a friend. Maybe he saw me as a brother. I meant something to him, there was no doubt about it. But a lover? Needless to say the idea had surely never crossed his mind.

No, really. I knew he would have killed me. That's why I knew my love for him was a secret I would have to take to the grave. I thought it would be fine. I was pretty good at lying and dancing around the truth. I had been doing that my whole life, to the point that it became second nature, like some kind of deeply ingrained instinct. But I was still afraid he would find out, one way or another. Every time he said I was being 'too good' to him, every time he seemed suspicious of how readily I would sacrifice myself for his satisfaction, I started to worry, wondering if he had figured it out. Was I acting beyond the boundaries of friendship? Was I being too careless? Maybe he didn't find out today, but will he find out tomorrow? It gave me nightmares. No matter how I looked at it, the only imaginable outcome I could see was my death.

Sometimes, I felt as though my feelings for him were so obvious that they might as well have been written on my forehead. But still, he never seemed to notice. Instead, he allowed me to get closer to him, blissfully unaware of the burden I was carrying. Throughout the years, I managed to gain his affection, his respect, even his trust. I thought it was enough. More than I deserved, even. And yet, I wanted more. You can't help it, I suppose, not when you truly, desperately love a person.

I considered telling him the truth quite a few times—you know, just out of curiosity, to see what kind of hell it would unleash. But in the end, I decided against it, because my will to live was stronger than my appetite for danger. Actually, maybe that's why I loved him. God knows I always had a thing for troublemakers. If anyone was ever trouble itself, he certainly was.