The classroom was silent except for the sound of your shaky breath. You stood at the front, hands gripping the paper a little too tightly, the edges crumpling beneath your fingers.

Patrick sat in his usual slouched position at the back of the room, but he wasn't relaxed—not now. His eyes were locked on you, tension in his jaw, fingers drumming against his desk like he wanted to run but couldn't. He Knew the words you were about to say were meant for him.

You took a deep breath and started reading. Your voice trembling. "I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair." Patrick inhaled sharply, but didn't move.

"I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare." Your throat tightened for the briefest second.

Your voice cracks "I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind."

Patrick swallowed, but he didn't look away. Didn't even blink. "I hate you so much it makes me sick. It even makes me rhyme."

The class was silent, a heavy kind of silence. You kept going, even as your hands shook. "I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. You didn't care to wipe it away.

Patrick's fingers twitched against the desk, like he wanted to move. Wanted to stand up,-but he didn't.

Because he knew he had no right.

You spoke above a whisper. "I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call."

Patrick flinched. You saw the way his throat bobbed like he was swallowing down something painful. But you weren't done.

"But mostly, I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."

The paper slipped from your fingers. You couldn't look at him anymore.

You turned to leave, blinking rapidly, because you weren't going to cry in front of him.

The smirk he always wore was gone. Now, all that was left was guilt. And something else.