The Bereaving Accounts of the Bitterly Abysmal

Too good at being just friends

The sun was shining brightly overhead, birds chirping harmoniously when we first met. I cracked jokes with him, and we talked nonstop. We were inseperable; we had convinced everyone in school that we were made for each other. He brought in a heat wave, a hot stride, overpassing all of the other participants in the race to be the best friend. However, when he glided across the track and cut through the yellow tape, he set off a spark, and clouds appeared in the west. He approached me, telling me he knew I loved him. He told outlandish tales of how I was unconditionally and inexorably in love with him. I hated his guts for it. I hated how he thought he was so fabulous. I hated how he thought I was always thinking about him. I hated how he thought I was unable to live without him. I hated how he thought that I wished I was with him. I hated how he was all wrong. But most of all, I hated that he was all right.


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