The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back

I am only writing this right now to merely distract my mind from the less painful things that it wanders to. You liked me because of how my past, and the world, shaped me, whether that was my choice or not. You liked that the cruel, bad, the little things, did not harden me, turn me cold, those things did not make me bitter or mean. Superficial. You saw and felt how things affected me, saddened me, made me compassionate, understanding, vulnerable. I was different than most people, and you said that you knew that from the very first time that we spoke. This was not at all because I was nice, or friendly, open, or even weak, but I think because I was not the same. As time passed, you and I discovered together how I was in fact no better off because of how I dealt with it all, you did help me, while being as provoked as turned off by my honesty and sensitivity. I did not lash out, or actually give many hints whatsoever at what I was contemplating or feeling inside. You would be devastated in turn every single time that I got away with playing it cool. I was fragile, but I was real, you liked that, you even called me "simple", and I tried my very best not to immediately (and forever) take that negatively. My sensitive nature's expanse did not end within myself; you liked how terribly concerned I was with dealing with you, and even moreover, you, singularly. You liked that you could make me feel however you wanted me to, that I was malleable, but still so much myself. It was so bittersweet for the both of us how moved I was by practically and seemingly everything. You liked how I held close each story, every word, all details about you, I respected our privacy, and yours. I spoke the words more times than you had ever heard, "I have never told anyone this ever before". Though, it appeared that all things affected me quite deeply, that I was possibly growing, but indefinitely growing increasingly damaged over all things. I thought too much, too in-depth, too long, too specifically. I was so sentimental that I could kill us both in that, you liked it, it also revolted you. I was dependable, enduring, but smothering, overbearing. It was spectacular and terrible, the weight of knowing what it was that you meant to me. I worsened a bit will all things, I gave up, easily, easier. You saw my slow recovery, you knew of the sulking, the mulling over, the writing, the picking apart. You felt the self-loathing, the melancholy, the mistrust, the incurable infatuation with melodramatics. I told you I was in love with you, but not to worry about it, I told you that because I cared about you more than I loved you. When you disappeared, the aspects that I could not find either were a tiny bit of faith, self-esteem, my motivation, determination, a little reason to wake up in the morning, a small amount of try. You sneakily crawled out from under my heavy and different caring, knowing that I would never be the same. But that it was worth it.

We both knew I thought too highly of you, for both of our sakes.