Tonight I can't stop thinking of you, and of her, and of them, and of my best friend whom you so carelessly flirted with. I can't stop thinking of the messages I found on your phone when I had just begun to trust you and God knows I can't get the things you told her out of my mind. I wonder if you touched her how you touch me...? Did you call her pretty and **** and perfect...? Did she make you feel as good as I do? I wonder sometimes, late at night, if maybe you think about her. You do not understand, my love, the absolute torture it was to watch you love on other girls, and put your arm around other girls, and kiss other girls, and **** other girls, and share those passionate moments in which I believed were just mine and yours... with other girls. Some days I can not help but feel as if I am not special at all. You touch me only how you touched the others. You kiss me only how you have kissed them. You say you love me just as you said to her and her and her and her and her... When making love is to me, is it only just *** to you? Am I only just... *** ... to you? I fear, my dear, that even now, and even here, I am only as one of your other girls. I will only become... one of your... other girls.