Dichotomy.

Most love/hate relationships are complete and utter bullshit.

They’re just people trying to cover up their real feelings by pretending to hate someone they’d jump in a heartbeat - if no one was looking.

If no one was there to judge them for it.

In reality, it’s a dynamic.

Hate-to-love, or love-to-hate.

It’s the same difference in the end, and it’s a fine line.

Dichotomy.

Bipolar-ness of the heart.

These are real emotions, not weak, second-grade feelings that I can try to disguise by pulling your hair at recess.

If anything, I’m hiding that I’m terrified.

I’m hiding that we’re both scared shitless of what we can do to each other.

She hates me because I know her like no one else does.

Because I understand her more than she wants to be understood.

I hate her because I want her more than she knows.

I hate that she was weak enough to leave.

I hate that she’s too God damn stubborn to reconsider.

I hate that I still love her.

Rewind to three, maybe four months ago, when ignorance was bliss.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Spencer and I stand in the balcony, watching the band as they take the stage.

Occasionally, someone in the crowd recognizes us, and points us out to a friend, but for the most part, we’ve been getting by without being recognized and fawned over tonight.

As for the band, the drummer and singer are talented enough, but my attention is focused on the girl.

“So?” I ask Spencer, giving a subtle nod toward her.

“Her name is…Tina.” He squints to remember, knocking back the rest of his drink in one gulp. “I think she’s 22. Pete says she’s a genius composer. And guitarist.”

“Well, Spence, you’ve done your research.” He ignores my jibe. “Or stalking. Y’know, whatever you want to call it.”

He rolls his eyes and we fall silent as they begin their second song.

Spencer’s already informed me that this is their last show together.

Which is why we’re here.

Not that I want to be.

“Told you,” Spence nudges me in the side midway through the set, as she goes into the bridge of the song. She then goes straight into the solo flawlessly, her fingers flying with ridiculous speed over the frets.

Her straight auburn hair falls in her eyes as she concentrates on her guitar.

She briefly looks up after another ten seconds or so, towards our side of the balcony, as if she knows what we’re here for.

But she doesn’t know.

Not yet.

As I look down at the freely moshing crowd, I assume I’m the only one who can see through her façade.

I only saw her face clearly for a few seconds, but it was enough for me to figure her out.

Behind the sparkling eyes are tears waiting for a reason to be spilled.

Behind the straight-toothed smile is a painful grimace.

I know the look well, and wear it daily.

Unhappiness.

I’ve never met her before.

But I know her because we are the same.

For that reason, and maybe a few more that I don’t understand yet-

I hate her.