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I was supposed to be the one...to make you happy. To make you feel like you could fly, to make you feel wanted and needed like no one else could. I was supposed to lift you higher than you've ever been, to share with you your best memories.

Instead, I gave you heartache, I made you suffer, I tormented you with the truth and I made you settle for a raw deal. I made you cry and I broke your heart.

Yet you still come, you still smile at me, you still hold me as if I'd never slapped you in the face with my selfishness or let you down when you needed me the most. You still wipe my tears and tell me to take my time. You tell me that you will always love me. You do all the little things that prove it; even when you are not aware, you are there for me, taking care of me almost absent-mindedly...that's how much I've become a part of you.

We watched a movie, a bittersweet Cantonese romance. And as it closed with the melancholy melody that always accompanies Cantonese movies, I couldn't help but think: I wish I could've been that for you. Your happy ending. I so desperately wish I could be the one to do for you what the people in the movie did for each other, to love each other so much that they would've been willing to do anything to make each other happy. And I blame myself for being so easily confused, my feelings for you so easily doubted.

And so I cried...but once again, you were there, trying to wipe away the tears and console me, trying to make everything ok. But you don't have the answers that I need. Because I asked you, and all you said was, I want to be with you. No matter that I've told you everything, and the truth must make you miserable. No matter that I'm a mess and I can't help you hate me enough to forget about it. I told you before and I tell you again: I don't deserve to be loved by you. And you tell me not to blame myself, because you don't blame me, and all you want is for me to be happy. I don't deserve this either.