Let's Pretend I didn't warn you this would happen; I'm no fortune teller, but I knew two poets were a spiraling water spout. I was astounded that you would spend your literary gift on me. I'd be lying if I said I thought you would spend romanticism, letters, and songs on me. Let's pretend I wasn't impressed by your willingness to venture to a new place for first date. Let's pretend we didn't have our own version of "You've Got Mail," but possibly better. And let's pretend I don't still have those emails, more than a year later. Let's pretend you didn't think you'd be the envy of all my friends with the weekly flowers. Let's pretend I wasn't as disappointed the hurricane spoiled our plans for our weekend getaway in Maine, complete with arrangements for my best friend to tag along. Let's pretend I didn't get giddy like a schoolgirl when family followed my advice to call the missed reservation office to get a partial refund, but you called me "your girlfriend" in your explanation to the customer service person. I wish I could pretend we actually went on that trip that I thought was bound to be one of the cutest first dates. Let's pretend your liquored words didn't chip away at your established chivalry and that you didn't try to pin alcoholism on me in the end. Let's pretend you didn't practically blacklist me from your publications, which you swore you'd never do "regardless of how it ends." Let's pretend you would have actually given me the space I asked for. My, things could have ended without spats via email, painful poetry, immaturity at its finest, and blame for why good guys are extinct. Let's pretend I wasn't invested in an artist I never met that painted me in lights I seldom allowed; that's why when your light turned to shadows of villains, I closed the book on my passion because you were my muse for months. Let's pretend it didn't revive demons most people couldn't imagine fighting; thanks for that. Let's pretend your increase in followers and pity didn't add to the list of "self-proclaimed victim's" in my life. Let's pretend I'm the loose, heart-breaking, materialist, alcoholic narcissist you swindled your fans into believing. Oh.... guess according to you, it's not pretend. Let's pretend the sting of your backlash didn't tarnish the honey of your courting; the poems, the songs, the serenades, and even your published works-- spoiled.Like your story, these contents are robust and complex. To get to the sweet stuff, the steps are intricate and requires precision.Beesting CakeFilling:
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AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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