"Nothing is better than this," you say. You're referring to the food, of course. I resist the urge to say that you're better than everything, including the stupid slice of pizza. I can't, though; you've repeatedly made it clear that I can't say such things about you. It can't stop me from thinking such things to myself; nothing can, I fear.

You told me not to fall for you. You're not looking for love, and you'd never return my affections. You don't want to break my heart, I guess. Would that make you feel guilty? I guess it doesn't matter; my heart was in pieces long before you came. I laughed at your fears. After all, I had no desire to love anyone again. I told you it was foolish to think I'd ever love again, but I still promised not to develop feelings for you. My heart must believe it's not included in that promise. I fell for you anyway, and my love for you will always be unrequited.

I'm not allowed to tell you how I feel. Well, I could, but you'd hate me for it. You'd accuse me of manipulating you with my feelings. I never would, but you don't trust me. You don't trust anyone. Sometimes, I wonder if you even trust yourself. I doubt it. How often do you second-guess yourself? Nearly all of the time. You're a perfectionist; you made it your job to doubt yourself and correct what didn't require correction. In some way, I feel sorry for you. At least I'm happy with myself, even if I'll never know what it's like to love and be loved.

'But I still love you!,' my mind screams shrilly. I wince at the pain before glancing at you hesitantly. You didn't hear the scream, thankfully. The day when I have your permission to say I love you is a day I wait for. I hope I don't end up waiting forever, but my mind seems to think I will. Ito doesn't really matter, I guess; I gave up on truly hope a long time ago, anyway.