It is impossible to tell you so without feeling like I am bruising your ego. But at the same time, this really should be the ultimate ego stroke for you. I have never adored a man as much as I adore you. Never.
I have seen men crumble for me and I have seen men kill themselves with the torture I deal them. I have broken men and I have been so unimpressed with the most gigantical efforts they put in that I am surprised god hasn't smite me yet for being such an unappreciative little bitch.
You needn't even take my word for it - flip through my moderately-little black book and they'll all tell you the same thing, "Nicole cannot love. She is incapable of it. I loved her with everything I had. I gave her everything she wanted. But she has never reciprocated any of it. And she never will."
It is so easy to fall more in love with you and your antics everyday. It is so easy to think of new ways to please you. It is so easy to eagerly learn your favorite dishes. It is so easy to submit all I am and all that I have for you.
And while I can keep an logical and researched mind for everything else, I am unable to pinpoint the exact reason for why you are so fucking fascinating to me.
It could be that you are the smartest man I've ever known. Second smartest. My dad is the first. Then you. Also maybe my brother comes a close third. Maybe he is second. Okay now you are third.
It could be that you are the wittiest man I've ever known. All I did was tell you a nifty fact about how Persia is actually Iran, and you came up with the funniest 300 sequel ideas and caused me to choke on my water. I almost controlled myself at one point but then you said, "300: The Iran War" and yeah I choked.
It could be that you are the sweetest, one time man I've ever known. You set this incredible bar when you first asked me to be your girlfriend and then after that were all the little efforts but still, that was a pretty amazing one time.
It could be that you saved me from the man who saved me from a failing relationship. I didn't know it'd be you. I always thought it'd be someone else. How timely are you.
It could be that you are so skillful and giving at what you do lovingly best. My god only one in a billion men have the same kind of horsepower and creativity and spontaneity you do. I should not go on. I want to. Goddammit.
It could be that you always know what to say when I find myself detaching from you. We were on the bed and I was neglected by you watching 300. But it all melted away when you went, "I love you" and before I finished replying, you added, "... forever". I loved that. I love that.
It could be so many things.
But there was one, more important than the others, thing that perplexed me.
I didn't understand why there were so many variations in the love I felt for you. But today, while reading Leo Tolstoy's Family Happiness, I came to realize what exactly this strange variation is. Today, this unassuming book gave my love for you a whole new meaning.
In the short, the sir and the lady are in love. They were so disgustingly in love that I got sick of reading it. But then came the first fight, and the second, and the endless. The lady became possessed by the idea that the sir didn't love her as much as before. She accused him of so, to which he replied,
“If so, time is to blame for that, and we ourselves. Each time of life has its own kind of love.” He was silent for a moment. “Shall I tell you the whole truth, if you really wish for frankness? In that summer when I first knew you, I used to lie awake all night, thinking about you, and I made that love myself, and it grew and grew in my heart. So again, in Petersburg and abroad, in the course of horrible sleepless nights, I strove to shatter and destroy that love, which had come to torture me. I did not destroy it, but I destroyed that part of it which gave me pain. Then I grew calm; and I feel love still, but it is a different kind of love.”
There was an agony in the love I felt for you, when I was in vietnam. Every day was pained for me and I knew it was the same for you, which is why I did not admit it for fear that it would lead to our end.
But this, this is precisely it.
Post-the-talk, I see you differently. I love you as much, if not more. I love you as plainly, as you rightfully should be. But you can no longer hurt me (unintentionally on your side) the way you hurt me in vietnam, because I am now conscious my habit of overreacting and your habit of terrible texting.
Beyond that, I am now able to understand that my love for you shouldn't bring me pain like that and I let that part die quietly. And against everything I thought I wanted, I found the calmer love to be not too bad.
More than anything else, I think life is only worth living when you are living a great, passionate love. But maybe my past relationships have gotten me confused, mistaking drama for passion.
I love you. It is the start and the end of everything I hold dear and everything I know true.
And that is all I ever want to know.
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