I know there’s no way to mend what had been broken between the two of us—the damage had been done. But I’m tired of pretending to hate him, even if he truly does despise me. I’m still angry that I never got more of him, and I’d given him all of me. But I don’t hate him. I never did. There isn’t any way I could. For a long time, I thought hating him would be easier. It was a way to keep his fire close to my heart. A way for me to avoid mourning the loss of him, of us. Now, I’m just too tired to fake it. To fake anything.
