I did not love, I was not crazy in love, I was nothing but intense and pretentious in longing for reticence instead of the full stop. But the fact is, I fucking liked you. I loved our hours with sex on at 6 in the morning. I loved our Thursday night outings to some of the neighboring countries. I loved that blue perfume that you used only occasionally. I loved the idea I had of you when I first met you. I hated it when I heard that there were more people among us. I didn't love you completely, I was a lover of our moments, of everything we lived together, I loved the drama, the fake simplicity we used to have, the way my chest never belonged to yours, burning liked to imagine it did.
I was in love with the idea of being in love, never with you. I was pervert about you, like a whore who falls in love with the client. But I knew at some point each one would have to follow his own course. And I knew your course was being stuck in your past, and I settled for it. It was okay being your sometimes. I didn't love you, but I fucking liked the character I created in my head, and I addressed it to you.