My fear of love, which has driven me from you and into other men's arms for the past two years.
My loathing of sex. I wish I didn't, I suppose. But I just don't care. And not caring can make you kind of hate it. And loathing it, well, then it just feels dirty, and irresponsible, and utterly ridiculous.
I wish I cared. I pretended to care, for his sake. I just wanted him to be happy. But you're already happy, and I'm already happy. So can we please fall in love properly? Can it be that I accept you for all you've done so embarrassing, for all the friends we have in common who underestimate you? Can it be that you don't adore me so very much that I'm terrified to be in the same room as you? You'd never touch me. It radiates from you, though. It's not even desire. It's some sort of admiration. But less than that. He thought me perfect; you know I'm not.
You know I'm as fragile as I am strong, as silly as I am intelligent.
Can it be that you accept me for all the men I've been with who were not you, who should have been you? Can it be that you accept his words, his conviction that you're the best guy out there?
Can it be that I accept that we can be quiet and yet more adventurous?
She told me you'd surprise me, and I replied that you already had. Away from school, when you can be yourself, and I myself, and there is nothing but us and the land and strangers - then you are witty at the least likely moments, and I'm fonder of you than anyone in this world.
