Those sharp words.

It is not true, I repeated. It is not true.

How could it be, anyway? These types of things only happened to the fictional characters in my books. It wasn’t hard to think that it was all a lie because the thought just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t just me attempting to convince myself, I can assure that. The voices in the front seat were the ones trying to convince me, babbling about how everything had happened and what I needed to do, but how could they know what I needed? I heard their voices but gave up listening and decided to stare at the window, trying to get my thoughts together. We had just passed the place where the whole story had taken place, where it had both started and ended, so it wasn’t really an escape but it was somehow relieving.

“It is true,” he continued, driving my attention back to him. “He does. He really loves you.” The phrase brought chills to my arms and made me swallow guilt and regret. How could he know that it was real?

“I don’t understand you,” the other voice followed, “why wouldn’t you give him another chance?” I wanted to scream my response but knew that they didn’t want to hear it. They wanted me to go back to him and be the nice, cute couple that they had paired up themselves. They may have wanted me to confess what either of us had done wrong so they could try to fix it, but the truth was that they couldn’t. I knew their intentions were good, they only wanted their best friend to heal from his heartbreak, but there was nothing they could do with me about that. They had to help him get over me, not convince me to get back with him.

Determined to stay quiet after my failed attempts to explain myself, I looked back through the window while my mind analyzed freely. The situation wasn’t such a big deal, but the confession had left me unarmed. I had started to heal a couple of weeks before and the randomness of those words had cut open the wound again. They were so unfamiliar and powerful that I didn’t know how to fight them back. To me, they were sacred words that you only said when you couldn’t lock them in your heart anymore. They were words you only used when writing love stories, whether they contained pink love or black romance. They were words that I had heard and said myself before because, as contradictory as it may sound, I was not scared of them; but they had never been directed to me from lips that barely even knew me. That was what had gotten me out of place: that he was wandering around thinking and saying those words about me when everything had happened the way it happened. How could he be so sure? How could he believe his own words? More importantly, how could he say those words so easily?

It wasn’t me not wanting to believe, it was my soul being unable to understand.