Putting down the book on my hand,
I turned to my best friend.
“You know, if she and I were still together, she would be mad at me for giving books too much attention instead of talking to her.”
“And truth be told,” I continued, “I actually love it when she gets mad.”
“What are you, a masochist?”
“No, it’s not like that.” I replied to my best friend,
“She used to get mad at me a lot over the smallest things, and it was frustrating. But that’s what I miss the most about her right now because now I know that she was mad for one goddamned reason.”
Looking at the watch she gave me, as a late birthday present.
Thinking how she keeps saying, “You know I am not good with dates.”
“And the reason was, she cared. She was mad only because she cared.”


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