I’m done trying.
I’m tired. So, so tired.
I can’t do these little things anymore, watching my actions not bear any fruit is beyond frustrating, and I have no idea what else I can do to show you just how much I care without shouting my feelings. I probably should’ve done that from the start, but I’m a coward—have no qualms about admitting such. “There can be no intimacy without risk,” people constantly quote to me—and there’s truth in those words. And I know it’s extremely selfish of me to want a guaranteed happy ending.
I could just never understand your actions. But I’m not going to try interpreting them anymore. I should’ve figured out a long time ago that perhaps your silence over the matter was just your answer. I’m an idiot. I am. An idiot madly in love with you. But I’m backing out now—I’m sorry if you were at all bothered by my feelings. If they caused you trouble, just know that I meant no harm. I promise to stop now. I promise to be the best damn friend I can be to you. I’ll slowly stop these stupid little things I thought would make you see me. Perhaps you did. Just not in the way I wanted.
I’m going to end this, it’s enough. And a part of me hopes you’ll notice, so we can go back to the comforts of what we used to have. What I hope we still have.