There must have been a misunderstanding. I don’t love you.
It’s nothing personal, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that you “can’t be loved” and all that self-crippling shit some people say, which only affirm their own self-deprecation. You are a kind person, you treat me quite nicely, and to be honest, we’re having a good time.
The dates with you are beautiful. Ι mean yes, it’s you with those beautiful summer dresses, long enough to seem decent to old creeps, but short enough to keep me wondering what’s under there. And, boy do I wonder sometimes.
See I’m like that. I might seem serious and, to be honest, quite like I have swallowed a couple of tall canes, but I’m not the idolized man you have in your mind. I used to feel too much, but that switch is on “off”: I felt nothing, I feel nothing. There is not much I can take other than the occasional pleasant presence I enjoy by my side, with utter respect to its expiration date. Because make no mistake, all presences have an expiration date.
See, even TVs expire after a couple of years nowadays, and that’s actually funny. Then again, if there is canned milk that lasts more than two years, why can’t relationships as well? How did I get so shallow to think a good night’s action and a goodbye note in the morning is my ideal Saturday night to Sunday morning?
Nevertheless, I want to eat my breakfast alone, in peace with my newspaper— for fuck’s sake, a newspaper, who even reads them anymore! I do love my dog, though. You see, Tummy is very loyal, more than most people in my life, but that’s not normal.
I feel like I’m compensating, you know?
Again, that might just be me.
I mean no offense, but I couldn’t love you. Love hurts right? It’s supposed to be this one-sided thing that you feel and makes your stomach hurt, makes you do these crazy things the other person won’t appreciate because they’re insecure and just try to validate themselves somewhere else because you’re not enough, right?
Then why do I feel so good with you? The little things, this quick breakfast with coffee and croissants, the museums and ice-skating –which I suck at but then you convinced me to do!– make me so content that it’s confusing. Or is it the camping I hate but still go for because you, for some reason, enjoy it? I don’t know. I keep trying new stuff because of you, and that’s a big change for me. See I don’t like new things. I don’t like new people; I mean they’re good for a while, but not too much.
I don’t want to leave with a note by your bed quietly, you know. I kind of like all my clothes on your floor. I almost feel I can sleep in, I like your body touching mine; it’s starting to feel familiar, comfortable even. And I am terrified of familiarity, trust me I am. And yet this feels right. This should be wrong and scary – and don’t think for a second it’s not scary.
But see, I now know what’s under your skirt –I know all too well, as a matter of fact– but there’s a fundamental difference in me this time; I didn’t lose my interest in you after finding out. I’m not saying that you’re better than anyone else – fuck no; comparisons are for losers and teenagers.
I am only saying that you’re my kind of crazy. And for once what I feel doesn’t hurt. It’s beautiful and exciting and interesting – and scary as hell. But it feels like it can only get better, even if I’m terrified it can go extremely badly.
But it’s not love, right?