About

I'm sick and tired of this. I'm the only one expressing anything, the only one whispering love, the only one begging for affection. I can't do this anymore; I'm exhausted. When I said "I love you," thinking it would be my final confession, I didn't expect to be met with a short, blunt "Yeah." No, that's a lie. I knew. It had always been that way. Because I knew, it hurt even more. I left him standing there blankly and burst out the door. There was no hand grabbing mine, no voice calling my name. I wandered the streets, a mess of misery, anger, sorrow, and loneliness. I walked aimlessly. I stepped anywhere. The pain of my tender soles being crushed was nothing compared to the ache of deciding to end everything with him. How much time had passed? A familiar car stopped in front of me. The door opened. That damn man finally stood before me. Even as he looked at my bloodied feet, he remained silent. He took off his own shoes. He knelt on one knee, lowering himself. He reached out and grabbed my ankle. He slipped his shoes onto my blood-stained feet. Because that touch felt so tender, Because the warmth of the shoes he forced on me was so familiar, Because the empty space left in the oversized shoes felt so unpleasant, Because I hated him for not even caring that his knees were getting soaked by the wet street. If you were going to act like this anyway, You should have been kind to me from the start.