Maybe I’m just wasting my time waiting for me to finally be ready for you. I know it should be the evident thought, but I already have this logical reason on why I should keep on hanging on to you for as long as I can. Because there’s this weird place in my head that thinks that “as long as I can” is about to end, and it’s about to end well.
I could live my life not telling you about all the things you make me feel. About how you can be the only thing I look forward to in the entire week. About how you can be the only one I’m with when I don’t feel the need to be anything else but myself. About how thinking about you can sometimes be my only defense against my constant sadness. I can choose not to tell you these, but where does that leave me?
I will always hate the thought of you not knowing how much you really mean to me. And I have always hated this thought more than me not actually meaning anything to you. But I know, deep inside, that when these thoughts are not just thoughts anymore, I will end up hating the latter over the former. Because the former will lead to the latter.
I’m wasting my time waiting on you. I know I am.
But I’d rather have that than have you waste your time on me.