εїз reasons εїз
He's not sorry. I know he doesn't feel bad about what he did. He doesn't regret it, he doesn't care how I feel, he does not feel bad.
Its funny, though, because he says that he does. And even though I know he doesn't, I still end up holding him to my chest when he cries and tells me he's sorry. He's not. And yet, I hold him, I kiss him, I tell him it's okay; I love him.
Time after time, apology after apology, I hold on. I've been plenty mad, oh yes. I've thrown a proper fit. Yet... Everything he says makes me feel worse. I shouldn't feel bad. I haven't got anything to feel bad about. I haven't done anything. He's the one always apologizing.
He'll come home late one night, or early the next morning, I'll ask where he was, and he'll apologize. I'll tell him not to apologise; I'll tell him that this was the last time. Every time, I've told him it's the last. But he insistently apologises, says he'll never do it again. And I'll tell him I'll give him a chance. One chance. One more time and I'm done.
And yet..
Time after time, he does it again.
Time after time, I tell him it's the last.
Time after time, I forgive him.
And the cycle repeats.
It's a never ending loop of lying, cheating, pain, and crying. Crying, apologizing, holding, and forgiving. Forgiving, laughing, loving, lying. Lying, cheating, pain, and crying....
There's really only one reason I keep letting him come back: I love him.
And I suppose it's the same reason that he keeps coming back: Love.
I'm in love with him. It's stupid, cliche, and dumb, but I have been since the day we met. I hate to say it, especially now. I'm so in love with him, it hurts.
I am literally in pain whenever I see him.
It's not because my love for him burns so brightly and hotly that I just can't help it- I burst into flame.
No.
It's because I know. I know that no matter how many times he tells me he'll never do it again, how many times he tells me he's sorry, how many times he tells me he loves me... It's false.
All of it is false. He's not sorry, he'll definitely do it again, and he doesn't love me.
He wants to love me, I know that much.
He feels obligated to love me.
He thinks that he has to love me.
He thinks that just because we've been together so long, because we got on so quickly, because everything just seemed to click between us, he thinks he needs to keep that up. He needs to keep it going, for my sake.
And I get that. I appreciate the effort on his part. He tries. He does. But I can tell it's not there. He doesn't feel it anymore. He no longer sees me as I see him.
Sometimes I think about us. Sure, they're the late-night, drunken thoughts, when I'm warm in bed, but the other side is cold and vacant. But they're still thoughts.
I think that maybe we moved too fast. Yes, we instantly clicked the day we met, despite the odd way we were thrown into each others' lives. We got on instantly. We talked quite a bit, when he found me on Facebook. And then they put us into a group, and we became best friends. We were closer within a week than I had ever been with anyone else.
And almost as soon as we had become inseparable friends, we became inseparable friends with benefits. Benefits like holding hands, shamelessly flirting, sharing the same bed, kissing... The lovely little fluff everyone loves to read about.
And then it got serious. Way too serious, way too fast. I'd get mad jealous if he were to be flirting or hanging around someone else too much. And he was the same way. I became so attached to him that I didn't want anyone else to have him. He made it quite clear to me that he felt the same way a few quick months later when he chose to have me.
We were young, I'd like to say as a valid excuse. We didn't know what we were doing. I was sixteen; he was eighteen... That's a valid excuse, right? Young, naïve...?
Being with him was the only thing I knew. I knew that I definitely loved him, that I couldn't stand to be without him, and I thought he was my own personal sunshine. And he was. He was every bit of that and more. We were both so happy. I knew we were happy. I knew that when he'd put an arm around me or vice versa, there'd be the biggest grin spreading across his face, and the brightest blush dusting mine.
And it was there. We were in love for the longest time. At first, yes, just a couple of kids–fools, really–in love. But it grew. Like a beautiful flower, we grew together; our love for each other grew. People found it ridiculous, almost, how quickly our flower blossomed.
But then, as all flowers do, it started to wilt.
One by one the petals fell off until we were left with nothing but an ugly, brown stem of what remained of our lives together.
Every night, it seemed, he'd be out somewhere, partying with loads of people. While I'd be at home, waiting for him to return, just like he said he would. I'll be home soon, baby. The same thing every night.
I still fall for it.
Each time I tell myself, I won't fall for it this time. I'm done. But then I'll still stay up later than usual, end up lying in bed awake for hours, until I hear the door open, and the bed softly groan under his weight. Then I'd fall asleep, telling myself I'd deal with it in the morning.
Three times out of four, he'd be too hungover to even wake up at a proper time, and then he'd hardly remember, and then he'd apologize over and over until I would tell him it's alright.
Hold in mind that this is only when he would actually come home at night. Sometimes he wouldn't even be back by the next morning when I'd wake up early, cold and alone. It'd be much too early to rise, so I'd try to get more sleep, but then I'd hear him entering the flat, just as the sun was going up. He'd lay down and pass out until I'd choose to wake him up. If I'd choose to wake him up.
And yet I still stick around; I don't kick him out, and I won't leave. Why?
I'm still in love with him.
It's a one way street. I love him just as much as–if not more than–when I first realized my feelings, and he doesn't feel anything for me at all.
I suppose he hasn't in awhile.
We've been together for five years now, but it's been gone for half that.
He's testing his limits. They all say that.
He wants to see how far he can go before I crack. He wants to see just exactly what he can do before I quit.
He knows he can party all night and sleep around. He does it all the time. And I tell him it's alright, when he apologizes.
But it's not alright. It hurts me. I hate it. I hate him.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
But I love him.
And so I stay.
//
this is one of the worst ones i've done... gee, what a great way to start something off. it's something i wrote awhile ago; i'm finally deciding to publish some things. here they are, in this stupid book full of shitty shorts. leave a vote or a comment if you please... i enjoy them.
