I love you. I’m in love with you.

Has there ever really been a difference between us?

Have these phrases ever been separable?

We’ve tried so hard at convincing ourselves that this was just a passing thing that it’s begun its spiral into an unstoppable, foreseeable mess. When did it become something more? Well, I suppose it always has been. We’ve just ignored it, pretending that what we have can be undone, that it’s not something special at all. That it’s something that everyone can have, that it’s something that doesn’t just happen once in a lifetime.

Now winter has begun, and I feel the only way to warm my heart is to be near you. My body craves to be near yours at all times, to relish in your warmth. It craves to touch you, to feel you, to hold you while you keep me warm on a frostbitten night. I can’t tell whether I’m still trying to ignore these feelings, or whether I have merely accepted the fact that I am completely and utterly doomed.

You are the first person I’ve been with that’s been kind enough to really love me, to respect me, to cherish me. And I try to be brave; to love you, respect you, and cherish you back, in my own way. Though I may not be perfect, I’ve stopped trying to only put half of my heart into this , and have given you my whole heart. When you say that you love me, but ‘of course’ you’re not in love with me, I laugh along with you. That’s what I knew I was getting myself into in the first place. But inside, my heart withers away a little. As the frost begins to creep into the city, it also nestles itself into my heart.

You’re leaving me soon. Although I always pout and tell you I don’t want you to go, my heart and my head are both screaming and crying, begging you to stay. I’ll always stay quiet though; I can’t bother you with these thoughts. It’s not like we’re in love.

I’m sorry I’m not getting you a gift this year. But it’s hard to choose what to get for the perfect man. Especially when you won’t be around to receive it. We’ll be in different countries- star-crossed lovers, you say. It’s true, but I wish when you said lovers you meant more. There’s always a certain avoidance to your words. As starkly honest and open as  you always are with me, you’ll never tell me that you’re in love me with.

I get quiet when I think about you leaving, something I rarely do. You’re my other half; you know me so well, and you always notice when I’m silent. But whenever you ask me what’s wrong, with a kiss that always melts away any inhibitions and insecurities I may have, I just smile and tell you nothing’s wrong.

I mean, it’s not like we’re in love.

…Right?