“Your words are not real,” he says. “They sound very noveli-ish and artificial.”
I ask him what makes him say that.
He says, “Look at all that you’ve written. They seem like they’re straight out of a story book! They do not feel like the real feelings of a girl.”
I am tempted to type a very nasty reply, but I stop myself.
It’s not his fault. He wouldn’t know. For him, whatever I go through would seem like fiction. His life is different. And it’s impossible for him to imagine that a life like mine exists.
I used to get angry before, lose my temper, lash out at him. But now, nothing about him seems to bother me any more.
This is not just another random person. This is someone who meant quite a lot at one point of time.
This indifference scares me.