Loving her was like vandalizing Princeton, or Yale, like waking up to fresh baked bread and deciding to burn it in the toaster. Loving her was easy because she made it so but hard because she wanted it so. I’m a nice guy but I’m not that nice, so what if I wanted to move things a little faster. I have needs.
     

Loving her was like trying to study for math while your phone kept going off. Loving her was like catching a cold and then giving it to everyone you’d invited to a party. I put up a nice guy front, but I’m not that nice. I’m important. I didn’t want her to do something she didn’t want to. It bummed me out that she didn’t want to do anything- But no pressure.
     

Loving her was like watching Romeo subconsciously realize that Juliet looked alive. Loving her was like waking up to see Romeo lying dead. So what if I lied a few times, so did she. Maybe it was because of her trust issues or the fact that I emotionally exhausted her, but she needed to always forgive me because I need space but I mean I can’t be without her. I’m sure you understand.
   

 Loving her was like buying a new guitar, learning to play it, then the moment you show it to your friends the strings break. Loving her was like dropping your pick inside the guitar. I did love her. Just not after we broke up. It’s not like I started dating immediately, I gave it a good 12 hours. I figured she wouldn’t be hurt if I ran to my best friend. She dumped me.
     

Loving her was like that one song that talks about the ironies of life. Loving her was like rain on your wedding day. Not that she envisioned that. She thinks that high school relationships are just “learning experiences” but I know that they’re forever. She broke up with me because school comes first? I thought she loved me.
     

Loving her was like exchanging Christmas gifts with a friend but they got you something worth ten times more. Loving her was like thinking that friendship was more than it actually was. I told her I wanted to say “I love you” after six days. I mean, it was over text, so it wasn’t a full Ted Mosby but she stuck with it.

Probably because my problems are important, more important than hers. But I’m awful, a failure, completely helpless pleasetellmeimpretty- She knows this but she faked loving me, obviously. After seven months, she obviously faked it all, right? That makes perfect sense. I never did anything wrong, anyways.

Loving him was like trying to describe loving him. Difficult, unreasonable, paradoxical. No matter what you do you always feel wrong. So you- You try to- No, you-

     Loving him meant getting tongue-tied. Loving him meant care love he something.
     Loving him meant letting him go. Loving him meant that letting go would be the hardest part.
     Loving him meant that he would never understand that letting him go was the hardest part.
     Loving him meant that after everything, you’d learn to love yourself.