This is a letter you'll probably never see. Whatever. I'm writing it anyways. I think I love you, yes. But we're a ticking time bomb. Always. I've never been able to tell what you were thinking or feeling unless you told me. You're quite good at being un-translatable. I'm not going to spill my feelings or any of that. I guess you're sick of hearing it. Besides, you've got Olivia and practically any girl you could ever want. Every now and then, you tell me you miss me (such as yesterday) or tell me you wanted me. How the past tense has become my most mortal enemy lately! Want-ed, care-d. I guess I'm naïve, foolish, young. Whatever the reason, I've always wanted to make the most of the time I've been given. You've been hurt, this you've told me. Yet you're not invincible. I'm the only one in this whatever-it-is that wants to hold on, to carry on. What I want most is for you to tell me that I'm beautiful, that you still want me, that you're sorry, that I'm still who you think about. I know I'm not, though, and you don't lie. So much for your promises, though – remember you telling me that you'd never think my messages were a bother? The ones that go unanswered for days tell me otherwise. Remember when you said you were falling for me? Your actions tell me a totally different story, one that crushes me. Yeah, I'm a hopeless pushover and forgave you right away. The scars are still there. Still as raw and bloody as when you first made them. I trust too easily, fall to hard too fast. It leaves me on the ground every time. Yeah, I'm sorry for what went down, that I'm overwhelmingly imperfect and always someone you can come back to. But what overshadows that is the hurt, the pain of knowing you'll never feel the same way. That breaks me.