I adore you. You have the kind of eyes I never used to understand when I would read about them in books. Now I get it. You have meant so much to me. Every time I think of you, my mouth automatically snarls, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

I remember when I put my pink pearl bracelet around your wrist because I thought it was clever, and then you fell on it and broke the clasp and stuck a daisy in my hair to make up for it. I broke a blood vessel in my knuckle on your collarbone when you raced me back. I was so happy.

You walked me to my car that night with your pants on your head, and you laughed at my dirty jokes and I wasn't afraid of you anymore. I drove home with the radio off and thought that just maybe this was what it felt like to fall in love; for the first time, I had to fight back the impulse to take that curve going straight and dive headfirst through the windshield into the tree trunks.

That girl of yours was so nice when I met her. I hated her. I hated you for holding her close and saying that she did all the work. I wanted you so badly. I loved you. I hated you.

You left all those hairpins in the middle of the floor, and I made off with them like a thief and mixed them in with mine, so now sometimes I've got you all tangled up in my hair and you don't even know it. And neither do I.

This would be so much easier if even a single word of it was fiction.