If you were willing to let things be different than what you want them to be; if you could just let me be who I am and not try as fucking hard as you can to make me what you want me to be in order to keep writing your favorite story; if you were willing to face what's real, what you have and what you never had; if it weren't so damn important to you to live in your own world... then maybe I could help you.

And I know you're keeping this from me and I would've thought I'd be entitled to know, but I know you're keeping this from me because even I can't believe that you're stupid enough to be that blind. And I would've thought maybe we could've talked it out - but then again, I'm not sure I'd be interested to anyway.

But I guess I know, and at least I have reality to hold on to, and the good thing about reality is that it doesn't crumble down.