“I thought . . . if we ever became something more, I was sure I was going to disappoint you.” “That’s—how would that even be possible?” I demand. “You’re perfect, and I’m me, and I—I fell for you first. I’ve liked you for almost half my life, and you basically just admitted that you only saw me as a friend for most of that time—” “No, you think I’m perfect. You think everyone’s so much better than they really are, and you think you’re so much worse than you really are. I was only a goal to you,” he tells me, swallowing. “I was a dream, someone unattainable, something you built up inside your
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