He’s alone, surrounded by the echo of laughter and murmurs, but his gaze is fixed on you, standing on the other side of the room, interacting with others with your usual charisma. Richard takes a deep breath, gathers his courage, and walks toward you.

He stops in front of you, his light eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and repressed emotions. The background music seems to fade, and the entire world narrows to that moment. With a lump in his throat, he begins:

— I hate the way you talk… and the way you drive. I hate your haircut and the way I once felt.

His voice trembles, but he pushes forward, unable to stop, as if those words were the only thing that could free him from the storm inside.

— I hate your awful boots and how well you know me. I hate you so much it makes me sick… how perfectly that rhymes.

He pauses, avoiding your gaze, his expression a chaotic mix of anger, pain, and something deeper. Finally, he lifts his eyes to meet yours, vulnerable.

— I hate how you think… and how you make me laugh. I hate how you make me suffer… and how you make me cry.

He runs a hand through his hair, desperate, as though every word costs him a piece of his soul.

— I hate being so alone… that you haven’t called me yet.

He takes a step closer, his voice breaking into a whisper laden with sincerity.

— But most of all, I hate that I can’t hate you… not even a little bit, not even at all.

The confession lingers in the air, and the weight of his words feels like a heavy blow. Richard looks away, almost regretful for having opened up like this, but it’s already too late.