I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, how you look for the right words and the right ways to say them. I like your crooked smile. I like them because they made you human. And humans are easier to appreciate than photographs (especially the faded black and white ones that I simply adore) and illusions. I like how you exist on reality and not on some cheesy novel-based movies that has happy endings. I like the way you can’t dance and how your music taste shift from grunge to 90’s pop love songs. The scars and the bruises tell their stories. I want to know what caused them and most probably, who caused them. I enjoy seeing you insecure, vulnerable and troubled. I like how you pop a message all of a sudden and asks for a school work due the next morning. I like how you hesitate to do things that you’re best at. I like how your passion manifests and shows who you truly are.
They’re your best asset, believe me. I like how you don’t know how incredible you are. That’s the thing I hate the most about you.
I hate your messy hair on a lazy afternoon. I hate how you respond to the silliest questions. I hate them because you’re a human. You exist on reality. And reality is not on my hand. I hate how my favorite songs become your instant hummings. And more importantly, how you unceasingly open your stories to me- heartbreaks, problems and all nautical nonsense. I hate seeing you most of the time when I’m on the process of forgetting. I hate how you speak to me like nothing happened.I hate how you ask my opinion to almost anything. I hate you. I hate that you’re too good to be true.
And I’m not Tom Hansen from 500 Days of Summer, just saying. Or maybe we’re dealing with the same shits.