Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Love: Not fair. If I can’t send them, you can’t either.

I strip off my tank top, throw on a lace, black bralette as soon as the message deliver and send him a more revealing shot of my nearly exposed cleavage and bare stomach.

Love: Oops. Finger slipped.

He opens it twice as fast.

Zac: Fuck, L.

Zac: This is torture.

Zac: You can’t fucking do this to me, then tell me I can’t know who you are.

Love: Or what?

Love: What are you going to do?

I expect him to send me another picture. Another message. But my phone ringing and the caller ID spelling out his name?

That… I didn’t expect.

Zac: Pick up the phone and find out.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Four times.

Oh.

My.

God.

For a sliver of a second, I let myself consider it.

Imagine what would happen if I picked up.

Talked to him.

Let him hear my voice.

I wonder if we’d stand a chance in the real world. Or if he’d never forgive me for lying to him about uncovering his identity from the start. Wonder if I did the right thing by hiding behind this “Love” persona.

Instead of being me.

Aveena.

All of my hopes and dreams spiral out of control before colliding with the cold brick wall they call reality.

We can never be more than confessions in a book.

We can never be real.

So, I choose to be Love a little while longer.

And decline the call.