Clarity.

He never really knew me; he only knew what I showed him, which was this perfect play-up, all fake, dripping with enthusiasm. But now I wish that I showed him the real me, this neurotic ball of messy emotions and cigarettes, because maybe then, he would love me more. I used to think every boy was flawed. This one was too much of a slut, this one liked football too much, and this one showers forever. And for some reason, I could never accept their flaws. They all sickened me too much, so I didn’t think it was right for me to pretend like I could deal with them. But he… he was my test-run. Fake it for him. Find his flaws so I can finally prove that all men are flawed. I wanted to know if my theory was true. If all my research could finally change it from a theory to a law.

But now, as I sit on my porch, smoking cigarettes and wishing he was here. I realize that I had fallen for him. And I hate myself for it. I searched so eagerly to find everything wrong with him, that I couldn’t believe it when there was nothing. He was perfect in my eyes. He chain-smoked, drank, and told jokes that made me tear at the corners of my eyes and clutch my stomach. He cuddled me and told me I was beautiful. He played me songs that were cheesy and intense, and he never woke up early to make me breakfast, because he was the one groaning with a hangover beside me. We were a fit, our puzzle pieces perfect. Two addictive people, addicted to each other.

And I really regret that I hadn’t figured it out sooner.