I sat there, clutching my stomach. He looked at me a couple of times with mixed expressions but probably just thought "God, she's weird" and let it go. He doesn't have a name anymore to me. It's just a noun. "I like..." "I love..." just like we learned in french, right? J' aime... J' adore...I can't even say it anymore. I can't say I love him because that'll make it true and that can't happen. Not...

I do still like him. At least I can admit that to myself. It's not as bad as it was, but it's still here, still present in my veins like an incurable blood disease. His cancerous passes and malignant half-glances have left me hospitalized and unseen. This stream of thought is as deadly as any lost nepenthe but I'd rather have the latter. It's disgusting that I'm not lusting after him but waiting...