She loved his wit, his laugh,
his crooked smile, his effortless style.
She loved his voice—bright and soft,
like a song only she could hear.

She loved tending to his wounds,
admiring his bravery.
She loved the way his hand fit in hers,
how he’d squeeze just a little tighter,
as if afraid she might slip away.

She loved how he’d scowl when she outshined him in school,
how he’d wrap his arms around her,
his hand tracing soft circles on her back
as if she were something fragile, fleeting.

She loved his music, though she swore hers was better,
how he caught her lies with ease—
Sometimes she hated that, but it saved her from herself.
She loved how he cared for his brothers
even when they drove him mad,
how scraps in his hands became whole worlds.

She loved his focused tongue,
his fingertips tracing her lips as she closed her eyes.
She loved how he’d lose himself in his passions,
his words overflowing when he spoke of what he loved.
She could listen for hours.

She loved his obsession with her hair,
Her proudest art piece.
She loved curling into his arms,
how he’d joke about his sharp bones,
but she never cared—
They were her shelter.

She loved how he let her playfully bite him,
laughing at her childish ways.
She loved the purple boba plushie he gave her,
their shared favorite color stitched into the seams.
She loved how he carried the card she made,
hidden in his backpack, tucked close.

It was a warning of the coming storm.

She hated the betrayal in his eyes
when she hurt herself,
when she refused the hand he offered
and let the blade speak instead.

She hated the silence that followed
when she told him the truth—
that girls could hold her heart too.
How his love wavered, unsure,
like she was suddenly someone new.

She hated his impatience with her sleepless nights,
his frustration when she poured her light into others,
leaving nothing for herself—
nothing for him.

She hated how it hurt him
to repeat that she was beautiful,
until one day, he simply stopped.
He was not a broken record,
and she was listening too late.

She hated how he begged for her time,
how her attention felt like a crime.
She hated the way he sighed when she rambled,
how his eyes glazed over,
how he seemed to love his games more than her words.

She hated that he thought he wasn’t enough,
that he saw shadows where there were none.
That he doubted her, suspected her,
simply because she softened her truths,
because she coated her words in sugar,
trying to keep them from cutting too deep.

She hated the sharp words he threw instead,
cutting her raw—
but she only smiled,
refusing to break,
refusing to let him see the wounds.

She hated that she never got his sweater,
never felt its warmth in the cold.
She hated the way they drifted,
like ships unmoored,
as their friend group crumbled—
the one thing they swore they’d hold together.

She hated that her pain became his burden,
that she was exactly what she never wanted to be.
That she couldn't heal,
couldn’t reach for him,
couldn’t be saved.

She hated that she hit too hard,
that her touch was always a little too much,
that her love language was a puzzle
he never figured out.
She hated that she thought he would.

She hated the way she froze
when his touch crossed the line,
the way she blamed herself
for not being like other girls,
for not wanting what she was supposed to.
She felt like a failure.
She felt like she let him down.

And when it ended—
She hated that he didn’t fight.
She spent hours crafting that text,
sanding down the edges,
trying to leave without wounding.

And all he said was, okay.

She hated that.
Hated that he let go so easily,
that he didn’t try to hold on,
that she meant so little in the end.

She hated the last thing he said,
"Don’t lie to the next one like you did to me."

He never saw—
that her lies were just love in disguise,
woven from fear, from care,
from the desperate hope
that if she softened the truth,
it wouldn’t break them apart.

She loved him deeply,
but for every joy, there was a sting.
And in loving him,
she lost herself.