She hates you.

With every ounce of passion in her heart, she hates you. The passion for the way you fixate your gaze directly into her eyes and move your lips to tell her she’s beautiful. She hates that. She hates the way you call her beautiful because it’s everything she wants to believe in this world of unbelievable compliments.

She hates all the compliments you give her because they’re all lies to her; lies that she welcomes with a firm hug and guilty conscience of accepting. She hates the way your fingers slowly wrap around hers with the sole intent of keeping the webs between them warm, knowing fully that she is always embarrassed about her sweaty palms.

She hates the way she has to wake up to your good morning texts and start her day thinking of you, which makes everything else in her routine life feel so mundane compared to the thought of having you next to her. She hates you because you make her believe all the sappy love stories she’s read and watched can now relate to her as the main character. She hates you for everything that you make her feel, because at one point someone else made her feel the exact same way.

And she ended up broken.

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