‘Someone *Always* Gets Hurt’

In Brooklyn, I again try and write the story of C and I.

“This is a happier story than my last,” I say, by way of beginning.

I want to write everything. It’s a love story, I want to say. It’s the story I think of every morning when I wake up, and the story I dream of every night when I go to bed. It is the only thing that matters to me.

But I can’t write these things. I know I can’t.

C could never hear them.

And I can’t write about C without being honest.

So I never write that story.

And it all remains unsaid.

Just as she wants.

She must know, I think.

But as she dances around Lisbon, invites me to come live with her in an offhand way, and then refuses to talk seriously about an us, about a future… I cannot shake the feeling that, no — she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t want to know.

Which would be fine.

If only she wasn’t texting me every single day.

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