Hate That I Love You

15. Perrie - Maybe I Love You

Stop thinking about him.

So what if he’s starting to be incredibly nice to me? He’s probably just bored.

No, his eyes don’t resemble my favorite chocolate. I hate them; they’re the color of shit.

I don’t feel the overwhelming urge to run my fingers through his soft raven hair; it’s just that it looks bad on him that I feel the need to fix it.

He bought me a set of albums because it reminded him of me, which means nothing, right?

The fact that he stayed around my hospital room for long hours before he has to be practically dragged by Harry back to his room is just him feeling guilty of what happened to me, there is no way he’s concerned about me and my health.

Why am I still thinking about all this?

I stare at his lips because they look soft, not because I want to kiss him. That’s preposterous.

I don’t love the sound of his laughter or the way he smiles, that’s stupid.

His tanned, muscled body absolutely has no effect on me. He’s not even sexy, he’s annoying.

Just because he took care of me and cuddled me to warmth before didn’t mean that he cared for me. He said it himself; he did it because he “didn’t want to have to drag my dead body out in the woods of France to hide it if I died under his watch.”

He endured all kinds of pain from Eric for me; he probably just wants to tell me later on that he told me so and rub it in my face how wrong I was.

When we sat at that coffee & tea shop until the early hours of morning, it was just because he can’t sleep. He didn’t enjoy my company, and I certainly didn’t enjoy his if anyone asked, even if I really did.

I don’t love him, I hate him.

My head is drowning in my thoughts and I desperately tried to believe my own words but I can’t. What if I’m wrong all this time? I try to deny everything, block my feelings out, but by the end of the day, Zayn still ends up being the first thing I think about in the morning and before I close my eyes to sleep. I can’t believe that a week in Paris and an extremely eventful hard-slapping realization has come to this big confusion that had me wondering whether I really did hate him or if I just tried to hide my own resurfacing feelings.

I know that I am full of shit and that I’m lying to myself completely when I thought of all those things, but I figured that maybe if I tried to reverse psychology myself, all these butterflies in my stomach and the jumbles in my head would go away. It won’t.

Maybe I love him, maybe he loves me too.

No, it can’t be. I refuse to believe it.

Can Zayn just get the fuck out of my head? I’m about to go mental here, goddamn it.