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           I knew it annoyed the hell out of her. I could tell by the sighs heavy with her irritation, her expectation. Truth of it, it annoyed me too and I was doing it. She would say, "I love you." and it would be a piranha tearing away at the meaty arteries of my heart. The sentiment coming from her sugary sweet voice would be full of determination. She meant it and she wanted nothing more than for me to mean it, too. But I couldn't let on how I really felt.

         "Love you." I'd reply in an extra-casual, too-regular manner. It was as if I was talking to a relative that I didn't particularly care for. If I allowed myself to feel all that I felt for her; if I cracked open the gate that closeted my innermost self, I'd allow myself to feel the love that I had for her, the overwhelming, unwavering love that attached itself to every part of me without abandon.