I hate you. I hate the fact that you make me smile when I need it. I hate that sometimes you’ll do small things that make me feel good. I hate the fact that I find myself thinking about you. I hate you because you make me laugh. I hate you because I can hear you being the voice of reason in the back of my mind. I hate that I still get butterflies when I think about you. I hate you because we sometimes say the same thing at the same time. I hate you because sometimes we finish each other’s sentences. I hate you because we both like the same movies. I hate you because we quote them together all the time.

I hate that my stomach drops when I think about you with other people. I hate you because I love our dynamic. I hate you so much sometimes because you can actually be an asshole. I hate you because sometimes I’ll see something that reminds me of you. I hate you because I compare every man I date to you. I hate you because my favorite songs remind me of you.

I hate that I’m just too old for this. I hate you so much because I don’t want to lose you as friend. I hate that I’ve had feelings for you for as long as I can remember. I hate that you inspire me to write, to make art, and generally challenge myself. I hate that you allow me to be vulnerable. I hate that I write incoherent ramblings because of you. 

I hate that I don’t actually hate you at all. But mostly, I hate the thought of even telling you this because it may push you away and I’d rather have you as a friend in my life than not at all. 

I hate that this is creating so much anxiety. I hate that I feel like I just need to tell you so you know why I act weird sometimes. I hate that somehow you’ve broken barriers I put up to avoid these situations. I hate that when I try not to think about you, it’s in those moments you reach out or send me something.

I hate that I know everything is going to change soon anyway so I might as well tell you.

But most of all, I hate that you may think this is an ultimatum, but it’s not. It’s just another incoherent rambling that I would usually keep to myself, but someone else brought all of this out of me. And I hate that they are right that I should just tell you. I hate how exhausting this all is.

I hate that your potential response to this might be “Thank you, but no thank you.”

I hate that I’ve kept this in for so long and I hate that I’ve been such a coward. I hate that I’m still a coward. I hate that sometimes I cry about this thing, this monkey on my back. I hate the unease it makes me feel.

I hate that this might change how you think of me. And I hate how much that last sentence is what worries me the most.