Author: KiyoshiTanaka PM
So this is about you. It's not really about you wanting to help me. It's about YOU being driven crazy because I don't feel comfortable telling YOU a problem I haven't even told my best friend. This behavior… it's not rude. You're like a stalker. language.Rated: Fiction M - English - Hurt/Comfort - Words: 698 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 3 - Published: 12-10-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2978417
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I'm sorry for what I said.
I just want to be there for you.
I just want to help. Please tell me what's wrong.
Way to make me feel like shit. This is why I need to stop talking to you. All you ever do is make me feel worthless. I'm just trying to help.
You asked. I told you I didn't want to talk about it. You asked again. I said no. Now you won't just fucking leave it.
Well I'm sorry for being such a terrible friend for caring about what's going on in your life.
Please, just tell me what's going on. It's driving me up the wall, not knowing. I can't get all the possibilities out of my head and there all getting worse and worse.
So this is about you. It's not really about you wanting to help me. It's about YOU being driven crazy because I don't feel comfortable telling YOU a problem I haven't even told my best friend. Fuck. Off.
That's when you stopped texting. For a while. In the meantime, I called my daddy. Because, honestly, you wanting to know what I'm doing every second of the day has passed the point where it's annoying and was verging on 'creepy.' You'd gone there before, but when I told you that it was bothering me, you stopped. For a while. But then you started again. With the 'hey' and the 'what's up' and all the other shit where nothing's going on with you so why the hell are you trying to start a conversation?
You have no fucking right be obsessed with my daily habits like this. Yeah, you were my friend. But you were never my best friend. I don't tell my best friend most of what's going on. Why would I tell you? But all you do is ask-ask-ask-pry-pry-pry. Like a jealous fucking boyfriend.
I never liked you like that. I don't know what ever gave you that impression, but I didn't. I understand that you want something more, but I didn't, I don't, and your obsessiveness is making it so I can't even be your friend anymore.
In all fucking honesty, I'm glad I'm in a different city in a different state. I almost don't want to come home for Christmas. Because I don't want to talk to you and I don't want to see you. Because all your questions and anger-filled words have beaten me down and I can't take it anymore. I can no longer take you accusing me of being the reason your depressed. It's not my fucking fault you can't get over a girl who was never interested in being more than friends with you. And it's just… hearing you talk about killing yourself—implying that it might be my fault if you do—is just beyond me.
It hurts too much.
So that's it. I can't do it. I waited for my daddy to have our provider block your numbers, the one from your cell and the one from your iPod. You sent a bunch of texts in the interim, but I ignored them. Because it was creepy.
Have I told you yet the other reason I don't want to come home for Christmas? It's because I'm afraid you're going to walk over to my house and shoot me or something. I'm not even joking about that either. I'm seriously afraid you might come over and hurt me or my family.
And now you're calling me from your home phone, since you've figured out that I blocked your other two numbers. Was that not enough of a hint that I feel uncomfortable talking to you?
Because this behavior… it's not just rude.
You're like a fucking stalker almost, and that terrifies me.
Leave me alone.
My phone buzzes.