is in Love

i think your crush on me since middle school hasnt stopped…

yourwrite:

i find it kinda cute since we’re seniors in High School now.

Source: yourwrite

the difference is, I don’t hate love

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. - NEIL GAIMAN

I did.

yourwrite:

(“to various persons, all at once” / part eight.)

I’m still accidentally writing “10” in the boxes where “11” should go, like my fingers and this pen both reject the idea that I exist within a steam of passing time. It feels like just yesterday when you would walk the block and a half to my house and sit out my couch; not too close for comfort, but just close enough for me to feel your warmth.

I don’t know when things got messed up— when I stopped enjoying your company— but I guess somewhere along the line you stopped calling or I stopped answering, or I was always busy or too tired. It’s funny how somethings can snap, crackle and burst with electricity at the exact moment when you begin to marvel at their constancy— their wherewithal. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even think about you, I don’t even remember to. Abracadabra and you are completely erased from my mind. I don’t even see you on the street anymore like I used to. I don’t know if that means you’re not there, or I’m not really looking.

The truth is, I’d go back if I could— at least, if I could somehow cut out the times we shared without bringing along the other things at the same time. If we could just remove one second from a minute and relive that by itself. Hell, I’d go back even further. I’d go back to before the couch-talks, and you living the block one over from mine. I’d go back to the seventeenth summer, to just the four of us with gas money to spare in that bright yellow car.

I’d go back to simultaneously loving and loathing the way we all were living. Regardless of how things went— how they started out with a literal splash, our feet pounding hard and deep into puddles in the midst of that storm, or how they ended with a series of smaller and smaller conversations— you have to know how much I liked you. You have to know how much I’ve always cared in one way or another.

And I’m glad I never kissed you that day I really wanted to, but I’m sorry if I never told you how much I really did enjoy your company and I did care. I’m always repeating myself, but yes, I did care. I did.

(-what’s mine is yrs.)

crushed:

You of course, who else?

Every time you speak to me is a sunbeam to combat the endless stormy clouds I seem to always conjure up for myself. It’s comforting to know that even though you may never have the feelings I have for you, at least you haven’t forgotten me.

— Little ol’ me