I often wonder what it would be like if you loved me as much as I continue to love you. To be loved with so much passion and determination, so much desire.

Yet I remember that you cannot possibly love someone like me.

Broken.

Insecure.

Unworthy.

Your replies to my messages are probably just a made up dream. A spark of hope firing up juices of my imagination. I still cannot forget the look you gave me when I gave you that movie ticket. You were late that day, you weren’t supposed to come. I persuaded you, lied to you just so you would be there; I wanted to see your face. I saw your genuine smile then, while you laughed heartily about something I said, I couldn’t remember what.

I hate myself for ruining whatever friendship we had because of some teenage drama my witch of a best friend — or ex-best friend — started. I can’t help but be annoyed at the fact that petty arguments came in the way of our witty conversations. Fights in the way of our laughter, and even disagreements getting in the way of our happiness.

Oh how I wish I could meet you again for the first time, perhaps I would do things better. Perhaps I won’t be the selfish one. Maybe one day in the future, we would meet. We will talk like nothing happened between us.

Maybe then, we can do things right.
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