How much.

"I can only love somebody that loves me back."


He tells her he doesn't love her.



... fuck.



------------



But really. She's nineteen. She's ma-ture, she's sensible, she's logical, she's so quick and ready to throw her heart out and embrace any other solution as long as she gets out quick and free and unhurt.

She doesn't love him. She's used to his warmth, is all. To waking up with her fingers curled around his neck, lips pressed against the soft,soft skin of his chest, so thin she feels the bone of the rib cage underneath protecting the beating heart she hears. To instinctively reach for her phone after every event that ends without his presence. To feeling an arm slide around her waist, making her belong, making her presence known as somebody wanted. To having tingling kisses trail down her neck...


How did she become one of these girls? So unhappy, so angry, so negative-emotionally filled. How had she only realized it now? Because everything else that she received in inverse was not enough.

She was not happy enough to be this unhappy.

She was not in love with him enough to endure so much indifference.

Love him and leave him and let this become once again, a place of your own.


Be that girl that laughs and drops her jacket every five minutes and bends to pick it up, letting more possessions scatter out of her black hemp bag and is impossibly late for her class. With unnbrushed morning hair, tinted dark blue under sunlight, a bright orange coat lined with black (faux)fur and ten dollar vintage jeans with song lyrics and wandering thoughts scribbled all over them with a black ink pen.

With the bittersweet taste of memory left on her slightly glossed sarcastic mouth and the look of someone who is done with crying in her eyes.

Oh what romance, oh what gilded words, oh what unreality.