"The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." - Blaise Pascal


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She was beginning to unknow him. While fairly certain unknow was not a word in the English language, she only briefly concerned herself with what he would think of her admittedly not-so-creative coinage. He'd more than likely just tell her not to act so childish. Still, there was no other term she could come up with to appropriately describe the deterioration of their relationship.

Said deterioration was interesting. It wasn't blatant or zealous or full of resent. It was a very, very slow process. One that took nearly the entire past year to develop, ever so gradually. It was like she was slowly beginning to hate him.

She hated the way he treated her like a pitiful, incapable little kitten. Neither of them had ever really been cat people anyway. She hated the way he always reached out, oh so slightly, if she even stumbled over the carpet. He was typically the clumsier one of the pair. She hated the way he held her, only when he absolutely had to, his fingers barely skimming her shoulder blades and his chest a good four inches from her own. He used to say you could judge a man by his hugs, just as well as his handshakes. What would he have said about himself now, she wondered.

It – He hadn't always been like that though.

Before, he would jump on her from across the couch in the middle of watching midnight reruns of Friends and tickle her until she cried. He would take her to the foreign film theater and they'd substitute the unknown language with their own dialogue. He would randomly give her flowers – despite her allergies. "To hell with your nose!" he'd say, and demand her to suck it up and humor his romantic follies. He would drive all the way to any fair that came within fifty miles of their house if only to gorge themselves on funnel cake and puke when they got home.

Now, it was a miracle if he ever so much as smiled at her.

One year really changed things.

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