What I think.
2:40 p.m.

You ask me what I think. Over and over again, every time we're together, you ask me what I think. About you, about us, what do I think, you ask me again and again.

I always tell you something noncommittal, something that shows you I care without really answering. I hold back, I admit it. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm afraid that if I tell you the truth, you'll flee the scene.

Do you really want to know the truth? You want to know what I whisper into my pillows every night? You want to know what breaks my heart and burns down my face in little tears every time you say something about how I'm not your type? You want to know my new secret, the new pain that's alone behind my walls with me?

You want to know what I think?

I think I'm tired of thinking. I think I'm sick of my brain calling the shots, and I think I'm ready to give my heart a little free rein for once. I think I'm ready to feel a little something. I think it might be love.

Yeah, that's right. You asked what I think, and that's it.

I think I love you.

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