He says he’s my lover, but I don’t remember him. He says he’s my lover, but I don’t feel anything towards him. 592Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFJTUmSCVcG
No, that’s a lie.
Sometimes...sometimes I do. Sometimes I feel something, deep in my heart, like the constant clicking of a key struggling to turn in a keyhole. It clicks and click and clicks and clicks, but still can’t be unlocked.
I guess that should’ve been a sign. I should’ve known back then; from the sudden change of subjects, to the weird questions about my memories.
Do you feel anything? He’d ask.
What do you mean? Is what I’d reply.
When you look at me. Do you feel anything?
Like what?
He’d look away, briefly, and then gaze back at me with a distanced expression. Like fear, for example.
When he said that, I felt it. The turning of the key. It was slight, slow even, but nonetheless, painful.
Can you mix fear with love? I feel like I did. I feel like I didn’t know what it means to love, that when I felt something towards him, I immediately assumed that’s what it was: love.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything remotely close to it.
Ever since he asked me that, I’ve asked myself, why would he say that. Why, why, why, why. No one replied, and I spent months with him, lost, but so utterly “in love”.
Until one day. Somewhere, deep in my mind, a little voice finally answered, and said: He’s a murderer, of course. Why do you think he asked you that?
592Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxn2GtmZlez
592Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrLUbelJtFe
