I hate you.

I love you.

The contradiction of his feelings for you is no secret- at least not to him. To you? Yeah, you probably have no clue. Jesus Christ. Looking at you made him feel like he was covered in filth. Like someone as shitty as him could never deserve anyone like you. He feels impure when he looks at you. Like the dried blood on his hands, in his mind- hell, in his very bones, would turn you off somehow.

He’s so into you that it hurts.

And then the next moment he’s not, and you’re just another person on this planet who probably hates him for what he’s done.

He both hates you, and loves you for that.

Jason looks at your photo on his phone screen. His face hurts. You tend to torment him in his dreams, and not in a good way.

He has nightmares about all the brutal ways you could die, reject him, overall just disappear from his life.

Jason clutches his phone so hard that the corners of the screen fracture into little starbursts. He curses.

He switches his grip from the phone to the sink, raising his head to look at himself in the mirror.

Well, he looks like a piece of shit.

Jason hasn’t re-dyed the white streak in his hair for a few weeks, so there’s that poking out of his forehead. He hasn’t shaved in a while either, and his eyes are looking particularly vibrant today.

He sighs, and goes to pick up his phone and call you. As he’s about to click on the little green icon, he switches to his music app instead. Jason clicks on a new song.

Ma meuilleur ennmie, par: Stromae et Pomme.

The fuck? French? He clicks.

Je t’aime, Je te hai-

“Fuck to the no!” Jason shouts, the song is too personal for 2am.

He changes his mind again, deciding to just call you.

You’re always awake, no matter what. It’s weird, but Jason does not have the brainpower to question that at the moment.

He clicks on your contact.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Hey, rat.” You say.

“Bitch.” Jason says.

Ah. He feels better now.