In all the time we spent fucking, I don’t think it’s fair to say that we ever made love. I did love you, more than I cared to understand at the time, and now, in your absence, I convince myself that I still do. And when you told me you loved me, I don’t think I had any doubts. But that’s not what we were doing.
You were my safety net, my secret, my project, my muse. All of my best writing was done when I was upset with you (which was often). My biggest mistakes were made when I was trying to get your attention. I always pushed myself the hardest when I thought it might impress you. Even now, I still wonder what you must think. But I’d be damned if I ever let on that you were that important to me. I cared the most about…
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