Fake

Some facts are hard to accept but yet remains harder when one keeps hoping.

In this whole wide world, it amazes how two individuals can actually meet. What more being friends, sharing moments together, writing off a part of each other's stories. What more to be family, to share the same blood (er, literally would be genetic material which I am not going to touch).

But other than blood. Is there nothing else we share?

Despite what I see, or what you try to make me see. All over again, I doubt of how true it is. Doubting is not only a torture. It brings guilt and disappointment. Guilt for not being able to continue trusting and disappointment for knowing how fragile everything is.

We have always been so very different. All the time. In everything. But all of us are, I guess. I have always hoped to be able to understand you. Over-confident or high-expecting as I might have been, I always thought I knew you best and had your trust and honesty. But looking back now, it is a bit sad to have to describe all these using past tense.

Should I thank you for giving me this illusion, which seriously made me glad, relieved and proud. Or should I beg of you to continue shielding me from what lies within.

I thought I knew you.
I thought I understood you.
I thought we were as close as ever.
I thought too much.

It is always painful to know that this special person, actually has an inner personality, or alter ego, or desperately-projected image, which I hate so much.

At the end of the day, you and I are different.
Who am I to judge you, but being me, I cannot bear being fake to you.
The way you deceived me.
It does not matter now. Nothing will anymore.