the fucking energy leached from my body as my frantic-rabbit thoughts tried to figure out how to make her happy, and each action, each attempt, was met with a rolled eye or a sad little sigh. A you just dont get it sigh.

Amy made me believe i was exceptional, that i was up to her level of play. That was both our making and undoing. Because i couldn't handle the demands of greatness. I began craving ease and averageness, and i hated myself for it, and ultimately, i realized, i punished her for it. I turned her into the brittle, prickly thing she became. I had pretended to be one kind of man and revealed to be quite another. Worse, i convinced myself our tragedy was entirely her making. I spent years working myself into the very thing i swore she was: a righteous ball of hate.