I don’t like him. I don’t think I ever liked him, to be fair, but it’s now that I’m absolutely certain I’m not the slightest bit fond of any part of him. It’s a relief.

People really wanted me to like him, they really wanted me to care about what he said to me and the way he looked into my eyes, and I’m not really about doing what other people want me to do. It makes me feel plagiarized, like I don’t belong to myself. Feeling like you belong to the world is a horrible feeling. But he said he liked being part of something bigger, a pawn in the world’s game, and that was when I knew. I don’t like him.

He said I was pretty. That something about the way I dress and the way I carry myself was appealing to him, like that was my fault. Like the way that I looked at him, which was the same way I looked at everyone, was somehow an elaborate scheme to get him to look back at me. I told him that the way I wear my hair has nothing to do with him, and I don’t care very much if he liked it or not. He told me that I should be flattered he was even complimenting me at all. He sounded like I had disappointed him, like he had the sort of claim over me that could result in my wrongdoing reflecting badly on him. I don’t like him.

When he talked, he would lean over my desk so it would tip forward on two legs, so I would be unstable because of the mere presence of him. When he walked next to me, he would bump his shoulder into mine to send me off of the path I had chosen for myself, to push and pull me away as he chose. When I was distracted, he would put his hand under my chin and lift it to look at his face. I didn’t want to look at his face, because I don’t like him.

It’s not that he’s a bad guy, it’s just that he’s a product. He was processed, packaged, and delivered to me with a no return policy. I’ve met tens of guys that are identical to him, even more girls that act the part back just the way they want. Girls that rise up on their toes to be closer to him, girls that smile back, girls that laugh and nudge back. Girls that accept Valentines that say “be mine” in cursive across the cover. They like him.

I want to be my own self, I want to make my way through the world alone, to be responsible for all of my mistakes and all of my triumphs, to reach the top of a mountain and be able to fall down the other side knowing that I did it, all of it, myself. I don’t want another half, I don’t want the missing piece of my soul. I want to be wholly me and I don’t need him. I don’t like him, not like that, and I feel that way about everyone.

It’s a relief.