“There’s this thing you do, where you make people fall in love with you.”
The scowl deepened on his features and a blush deepened on mine.
“They fall in love with you - we all do - I did - because you make them feel so special, when they’re not. They’re just one of a long line. Each of us thinks he’s your favourite, that you love us, and it’s all a fucking lie.”
The angry bitterness in his voice slices me to my core.
The tears in my eyes threaten to spill over.
“That’s not true, I do love you,” but I am defenceless against his tirade. There is enough truth in his ugly words to deepen my shame about the carelessness with which I bestow and show my affection.
“No, you don’t. You share things with them you don’t share with me. You’re a fucking liar, and I’m done with this game and you.”
“Please, it’s not like that. I don’t talk with anyone like I do with you.” My voice sounds hollow and weak, even to my own ears.
“You gave him things you won’t give me! For fuck’s sake, you sent him pictures! This isn’t love. Stop being delusional. If it’s love then you love far too easily.”
For uncountable weeks, months, over a span of years, I will cry myself to sleep (or lay awake for interminable hours) because he is right: I do love far too easily. I’m not a good woman; and I lead people on and I bring my misery on myself and people I care about.
It is years before I start to reconcile this in my heart. I see the best in people until I have a reason not to. I like to flirt with people I can trust. How is that bad?
Sometimes, I think I love by default. I never really understand why people love me, why they fall in love with me. I don’t do it on purpose. I feel like a fraud made of smoke and pixels and shimmering beauty that is an illusion filtered through copper and silicon. I am not yet the real me, and sometimes I fear I never will be.