You do me a grave injustice, Man. Your confession has put me at a great disadvantage. Truly. What I feel for you is a gift. A gift that I gave freely. In all honesty and good faith. I had no real expectations from it. Only that one day you might love me back. As truthfully and naturally as I love you.
Your confession makes a mockery of it. Why must I be privileged to this terrible knowledge? This foul and immoral thing that you have done? Am I to be your confessor, in order that you be granted some form of absolution? Is my existence in this thing that we are merely a convenience for you to escape what fate insists that you shall have? Am I to let you escape your doom because I am loved and still love?
No. You cannot have me as a shield. I cannot…
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