The prospect of love was the only alluring thing about your offer. I did not find you specially repulsive, or intimidating, and since I already love you in a platonic way, and you’re part of that small circle of friends that I often miss and care about, I thought that it would be possible to turn things around, perhaps go on a more romantic path but I knew that underneath the embrace of your arms was the many layers of doubt. That it won’t work out anyway, that our only similarities lie in our companions, that most of our conversations we’re drunken slurs, that although I’ve always seen you as someone physically competent with my ideals, the extent of my attraction have always been dampened by your non-committal gestures, how you we’re nice but I can never get pass your sluggish and childlike dependency on people. I was never interested in the first place, my love for you, if you can even call it love, is one those that consisted of a fleeting thought, it’s how a person suddenly craves for affection while walking alone in a busy street and then you move on. In the end, someone else have always been plastered in my mind, that the same person occupied my thoughts, all you ever did was mess with it for a little bit, take away a kiss, make me faintly believe that there is someone capable of being enchanted by me as much as I’m enchanted to them and then I realized how love can turn cheap, how you can make do with something resembling it while fully aware, that the real thing is walking out there who can be better for you.