Helpless, weak, alone. I know what I should feel, but I don’t. It’s happened so often that I can’t feel anymore. The only person in the world that can make me feel anything is me. Alone, late at night, I can finally feel. It burns, it stings, it hurts. But it’s better than nothing. It reminds me I’m still here, that I’m still alive. The only thing it can’t do is convince myself that my being here still matters. That I don’t know anymore.

Everyday I wonder if anyone would care if I just weren’t here one day. I mean, people would obviously be sad at the funeral, they have to be. But what about after? My friends would go back to doing what they always do; going to class, studying, playing FIFA and ultimate frisbee… all without a single thought about me. B---- would just go back to screwing E---, never thinking about our long conversations, never giving a thought to what we had. If we have anything at all I guess. I like to think we do… B---- is the first person in a long long time, the first person every actually, who has been able to make me feel something other than numbness or pain. But if there is nothing between us then I guess I shouldn’t be surprised… I can’t expect B---- to truly care when he knows for a fact he can do so so so much better than me.

M--- knew better. He spent one night with me, we shared one kiss, and realized how much better he could do. I don’t blame him and I’m not mad at him; I expected it. I’m mad at myself for even trying. I’m mad at myself for having hope. I know better.

E--- would be thankful I was gone. I know she tries to be nice on the surface, but she’d be glad that she no longer had to put up with me. No more letting me borrow her clothes, no more putting up with all of my stupid, ignorant questions, and most importantly, she would have her man. She’d be free of any competition that she thought I was(even though we all know that I was none….absolutely none at all). She’d be happy I was gone.

I keep holding on to what I want… I keep loving these people even though I know they don’t love me back. I show them I care, because I do care. It’s the little things that count, but they don’t matter when they come from me. A compliment from me to B---- means nothing compared to a compliment from E---. Absolute nothing. Me offering to clean their room or play FIFA means nothing compared to the same offer from E---. Absolute nothing. A joke from me evokes a small smirk; the same joke from E--- gets gut splitting laughs and high fives. Absolute nothing. But I keep selflessly loving them because I know that the more I hurt, the better they feel. The more pain I feel, the more joy they feel.

I’m so used to this that it doesn’t hurt anymore. I know it should, but it doesn’t. So I make it hurt. I’ll keep making it hurt until the day it hurts on it’s own, or… or until the day that someone actually cares and loves me back and I don’t feel pain anymore. But I know that day will never come. So long as my hurt means someone else’s happiness, I can live with myself. At least for a little while longer.