Sometimes.

Sometimes I think she's more in love with the thought of what I represent. Someone like her. Someone broken and flawed that still smiles and still lives. Sometimes I think she doesn't hear half of the words I say, sometimes I don't think she comprehends that I'd do anything in my power to make her happy. Anything I can. Sometimes I think that's not enough.

And then she calls and I forget until I'm alone and I think of her constantly. Every little miniscule detail. Every ignored word, every fake smile, every lie to push me away.

Sometimes I think she never really loved me at all.