I say I hate you, but it’s a lie, and I’m sorry for it. There could never be a moment where I truly despise you, not even if I summoned all my will to try. It’s not you I loathe, it’s the storm you’ve left raging inside me. I hate the rawness you carve into me, the way your absence coils tight around my chest, stealing my breath and smothering the air. I hate how I sit here waiting for you, silent and small, hoping with every fiber that your name will light up my screen again. I want you to text me, to give me the chance to tell you about the way the sunlight hit perfectly today or to share the words others have spoken to me. I want to tell you how I can’t stop thinking about you, how I ache for you to be here. But part of me wants you to push me away, to block me, to tell me I’m unworthy. To say I’m awful, that you can’t stand the thought of me. Maybe then, I’d have permission to stop craving you, stop needing the space you fill so effortlessly. I hate you. I hate this. But really, I’m lying. I miss you. I love you. And that, more than anything, is what I hate most of all.