Mark.

We met innocently enough, a chance encounter at a chance location in a dead town.

I made you laugh. There are only certain people who respond well to my humor and you were one of them. I felt proudly quirky around you, at first.

The flattery was addictive. You were so willing to listen to me and it felt safe. I’ve never felt safe. You sent me flowers.

I always felt I talked too much. You didn't talk enough to make me comfortable with it. My increased frustration would inspire me to invent more elaborations and add darker twists to my stories. I would tell of curiosities I never witnessed, of arguments that never occurred, of ambitions I never dreamed. They were meant to rouse, these stories, but they only amused. Your eyes would follow mine and you'd chuckle, but I could see I was speaking at nothing. I was an entertainer facing an eager audience, housed in a dim room where I alone was stealing all the light. I began wanting to lie to you. 

You wanted more. You were impressed and I think you wanted to keep me. The truth is, I’m afraid to be kept, I’m afraid to be touched, I’m afraid of the end. 

I’m sorry.