When I open the door, the first thing I do not expect to see (especially this late) is my boyfriend--ex-boyfriend I remind myself viciously--in a sticky, black tanktop-like shirt--a wife-beater he told me it was called--and loose jeans and a belt, his sneakers shoved on without care. I hadn't expected to see him, sweating and giving short gasps as if he had run the entire mile to my place. Instinct acts first and I open the door wider, almost as if to let him in, and reprimanding myself, I move to close it. Unfortunately, his reach is still longer and faster than mine so he holds the door open with ease. I hesitate before sighing, opening the door so that I can face him.

What? 

Without answer, he stares at me, his gaze boring into mine fervently. Guilty, my gaze turns to the tree in my yard, its leaves illuminated by the moonlight. 

...why?

Huh?

The word is a mumble, barely heard over his tired pants and my pounding heart. The second, my own, makes my fear grow and I know that he can tell, can see through my act.

Why?

I can act innocent, feign apathy or lie, but I know--we both know--that I can't lie that well to him.

Whether it was the time I had lied about being hurt--I had fallen down three stairs and he caught me, his warm and strong arms around me. But I had twisted my ankle. Forgetting about our date, he rushed me off to the hospital and ignored my protests and the stares as he carried me all three miles there.

Whether it was the time I had lied about not wanting ice cream--I was craving I admit. I hadn't wanted to tell him I was on my monthly and god forbid he figure it out. But he took one look at me and bought a cone anyways. He teased when I had stuttered a decline, saying it was for himself. Minutes later, he whined that he didn't want it and made me eat it.

Whether it was the time I had lied that I didn't want to see his trainee life--His future (current now) groupmates sounded so wonderful. He complained about them a lot to me, but I could tell that he loved them and how excited he was to debut. And meeting them was more fun than I'd expected.

Whether it was the time I had lied that he didn't have to because it didn't matter--Of course it wasn't true. After all, the whole reason it was important, that it did matter, was because it was a part of him and his life.

Nothing had gotten past him.

Nothing.

And yet, I can still try, still lie because telling him the truth will hurt so much much more. He doesn't push for an answer, but one of his hands reach for mine while his eyes bore into my own. I snatch my hand away. Because I know I won't be able to think straight with his fingers tracing circles onto my palm. Because he knows he'll get the truth with his gentle touches and assurances. He blinks slowly, deliberately, and breathes out. 

I love you.

It begins as a whisper, soft and barely heard, but still cherished. With each sentence, his voice grows louder and it reverbs in my entire being, crushing my heart and making it hard to breath.

I love you.

I love you.

He repeats it like a mantra, constant and unyielding.

I love you. 

I love you.

I love you.

He reaches for me.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

And suddenly, his arms are around me, his breath on my ear and I can't hear anyone but him and my own pounding heartbeat. I can't feel the cold air anymore, as I feel unbelievably hot and undeniably comfortable all at once in his arms, his form pressed against mine. 

I love you.

I love you. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

I lo-

And I shove him away, breathing hard because suddenly I can remember why I did this. Who I'm doing this for. The reason why I shove away him and everything about him so hard, to remind myself. I blink back tears and hope my voice doesn't crack.

I hate you.

And I close the door in his face, holding back my tears until I run into my bedroom and wrap my arms around myself, letting the tears fall. God, I hate myself.