Now I could see him without feeling so tortured, without feeling the need to hug him, without feeling the need to take my plate and bash it on his head and yell incoherently and cuss and let a torrent of words flow out in spits and vehemence.
Now I could sit by him and not feel his warmth radiating next to my body and still sit with him and not feel as if his hand grabbed my heart and squeezed every drop of blood out.
Now I could look into his eyes and tell myself,
I may like, not love, I may like him now but that feeling will dissipate. His face, unconcerned, his expression and behavior nonchalant and attitude as the same bad boy as ever. I used to love every inch of him till he went and grope some lady stranger and lived to tell a tale of it, though he swore he couldn't remember anything on that night.
Not remembering anything doesn't mean he's innocent, right?
If someone got drunk and whipped his gun out and create a massacre, would he still be forgiven even though he swore and accosted up to the judge that he was insane and not sober that particular night? Would the lives he took away from be returned to the bodies he bloodily murdered? Would his hands, even washed as hard, be cleansed and cleaned? Would his conscience be bothered now that he had committed multiple murders?
No. Because he swore he didn't remember it.
So how was I suppose to feel knowing he groped and danced dirtily with another girl, perhaps more which I didn't know of. How am I not suppose to feel the teeniest bit of anger knowing he did that? How was I suppose not to feel jealous that he did that with another girl? Not that I want his slimy hands to caress or even touch any part of my body.
BUT, there's always that tiny little prop up,
I am not his girlfriend.
I am just his FRIEND.
What he does is none of my concern.
What he's going to do has nothing to do with my life.
What he does, I should feel anything towards what he did, does, and will do.
I shouldn't be a part of his life.
I'm hurting as I'm typing this. I'm choking with tears; I haven't cried for days. Normally, I'd just breathe heavily and let my chest pause atop of everything and fall back with slumped shoulders.
But I'll hurt no more. The more he talks, the less I'll say.
The more he's there, the more bearable the pain becomes.
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