Is this fiction?

I hate you so much. So very much.

Do you know why? Because you make feelings that I had long ago buried and forgotten about, come back up to the surface. They burst and I am suddenly a different person. I’m no longer cold and calculated. I’m not able to walk away with a shrug of my shoulders, having resigned myself to the fact that I am alone, and will be alone for a long time to come, therefore knowing nothing can come of this.

It’s my fault, I know. I should keep this in check. But there is something about you that makes me do the opposite of what I know is right. I obsess about little things you may have said or done, things you may have written about, and scramble around hopelessly in an attempt to uncover some secret longing for me you may have.

You make me act like a fucking girl, and I hate it. I like to be in control. I like to make others sweat it out, make them obsess over how I feel about them. I like being indifferent. Oh he doesn’t like me? No big deal, I don’t need him. Now it’s as if I will explode if I don’t get what I want.

It may not even be you. It may be an accumulation of suppressed feelings and frustrations finally becoming too much and being unleashed on the next appropriate person.

The last time I saw you was when I knew I couldn’t kid myself about this any more. It was too real.

I never used to feel this way about you. It was always friendship and nothing else. But lately I have been having doubts about friendship being all I want from you. I can’t tell you this, which makes me hate you more. If I tell you this, I know I will ruin everything. You won’t know how to let me down, and will feel awkward for a long while. Our friendship will be over until we both get over the situation. I don’t want that.

I don’t want to keep this to myself though.

Give me a few weeks and I’ll be back to normal. I just need to make it that long.