To him:
“You’re funny and you play along with my little jokes and you always respond. I ask you the questions I used to ask him and you answer them differently and you have different favorite colors and you have different embarrassing moments and you have different fears because you are different people. But asking you those questions, after listening to his answers, just feels gross. It feels cheap. You are nothing to him. You hold nothing to him. You’re vain like he never was. He had no idea what was happening, question-by-question he was falling for me, but he had no idea. He didn’t know he was falling until he had already fallen. He was real. The first real thing I knew. He was honest. He was mine.”


To you:
“I feel sick talking to him about his day, asking his favorite color, talking to him and asking him the same things. Because the thing is, I would still rather listen to you tell me about your details over and over again than learn his or any boy before.”

-bcg (i cant tell you this because im scared of the way you look at me now when i tell you how i feel)