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RELATIONSHIPS | HOW TO LOVE
The Things They Forgot To Tell Me About Love
No one tells you that to be in love is to burn yourself over and over again
This morning, he feels more like a friend.
I went to bed last night dreaming of sleeping in his arms, of belonging to him, of being with him till death did us part and yet this morning, he feels more like a friend.
There’s a lump inside my neck. The same lump I had the first time I tried to subdue him: You cannot think about him, Assumpta. Suppress him. Kill those memories. Do not think about him.
I’ve always been a little obsessed.
I lie.
Every part of me, every morsel, my cells, my skin, my very breath — everything I am ached for him. I’ve thought about him every second of every day since we started talking. That’s what he became: a constant presence, a thing I carried within me everywhere I went, a part of who I am, of my essence — my very flesh.
“Why do you love me?” he asked constantly.
“Because I’m choiceless,” I replied.
He didn’t like that answer.
If she had her way, she wouldn’t be with you — that’s how he interpreted my reply.