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Julian.

The line between love and hatred is so thin and breakable.

I’ve carved his name into my flesh, reopening the wound each time it threatens to heal.

I dream of his eyes, how they once looked at me with desire.

Now they’re cold, a predator’s eyes. I want to claw them out.

I want to make him look at me again the way he used to.

How sick is it that I’d rather have his rage than his absence? That being his enemy is better than being nothing to him at all?