The absolute cruelty of being told by the boy—who speaks to your heart in every way that matters—that you're not right for him.
Holding back tears as he says he's looking for something serious. Not a heartbreaker. Not someone who carelessly moves from boy to boy. You're too young for him. Or too experienced for him. Or too fast for him. Or...
Biting back the frown, you put on a smile and say it's alright. Because it has to be. He's an amalgamation of every wound, every boy you've ever wanted but could never have, molding you into someone you don't even recognise.
To say otherwise—to tell him this isn't who you are; that your heart beats slow. that your feelings are true; to please don't make me somebody I'm not with this— would be to let it fester and sting, to fight a crashing wave in a futile struggle.
But the wound festers still. You still remember all the times. The bitter taste of rejection in your mouth. It carves at you, poisons you, makes you the very thing you wanted to claim you never were.
And whose fault was it? The boy who told the lie, or I who believed it?