15 thin line between love and hate
I wouldn't call it thinking.
Thinking implies intention, like I'm actively choosing to go over things, analyzing them, breaking them down into something that makes sense.
This—
isn't that.
This is more like everything keeps showing up whether I want it to or not.
Uninvited.
Persistent.
Annoying.
I'm lying on my bed, phone somewhere on the floor where I dropped it ten minutes ago, staring at the ceiling like there's something up there that's going to solve this for me.
There isn't. There's just... quiet. Which would be helpful if my head would cooperate.
It doesn't.
Because every time it gets quiet, it goes back to the same place.
The game.
Intermission.
The way she looked at me like I was the problem and the solution at the same time.
I push a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.
This is nothing. It's just... circumstantial.
We're in the same situation, dealing with the same thing, playing the same roles. Of course it's going to feel more connected than it actually is.
That's how it works.
It doesn't mean anything. It definitely doesn't mean anything.
My phone buzzes somewhere near my desk. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Still ignore it. The third time, I reach for it without thinking, unlocking it before I even look at who it is.
Declan.
Of course it is.
I stare at the message for a second.
I glance up at the ceiling, then back at my phone.
There's a pause.
I don't respond immediately, because that's an easy question. It should be an easy question.
I don't like her.
That's been the answer this entire time.
Consistent.
Simple.
Reliable.
I push myself up, sitting on the edge of my bed like that's going to make this conversation easier.
It doesn't.
I exhale, running a hand through my hair again.
This is going nowhere.
I stop. Not because the statement is surprising.
Because it's—
accurate.
And I don't like that.
I lean back slightly, resting my elbows on my knees as I stare at the floor.
He's right.
I don't hate her.
That part's obvious.
If I did, this would be easy. I'd ignore her, tolerate the situation, get through it, move on.
Done.
But that's not what this is. Because she's—
not easy to ignore. Not in the way people usually are.
She doesn't act like anyone else. She doesn't talk to me like anyone else. There's no—
adjustment. No hesitation. No moment where she recalculates based on who I am or what I do. She just—
reacts.
And somehow that makes everything else feel—
different.
I don't like it. But I don't hate it either.
And that's the problem.
My phone buzzes again.
I don't like the sound of that.
There's a pause. Then—
I stare at the message. For longer than I should.
Because this time—
I don't have the same answer, not really.
I could say yes.
It would be easier.
Cleaner.
More consistent.
But it wouldn't be—
true.
I exhale slowly, leaning back against the wall.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
I don't respond. Because there's nothing else to say. Because that already says more than I want it to.
That one comes faster.
Easier. Because that part still feels—
right.
I don't answer. Because I don't have a word for it.
Because it's not one thing. It's not simple. It's just... not nothing.
And I don't like that either.
I lock my phone, dropping it back onto the bed as I lean my head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling again.
This is temporary.
Controlled.
Not real.
I repeat that to myself like it's enough to keep everything where it's supposed to be.
It should be. It's always been enough before.
But now—
it feels like something shifted.
Not enough to matter. Not enough to change anything. Just enough that I notice.
And that—
is worse.
Because I don't hate her.
But I don't like her either.
Which means—
this isn't simple anymore.