Hate is a strong word, and a word I very seldom used. I’d learned years ago what it felt like to really hate someone. I’d reserved that term for one man. The man who snatched me from my life, changed me, and then returned me as if nothing had happened.
I’d dreamt of his face, though I’d never seen it. I’d imagined him to be a vile, disgusting beast in a beautiful disguise. What he took from me had damaged me so immensely it had consequently ruined every other relationship in my life.
He destroyed me.
But the Juliana Callahan who now stood tall was the epitome of perfection. She was at the top of her class, followed her father’s hopes and dreams to a tee, but inside, she was a dark mess.
I was a broken mess.
The seventeen-year-old girl, who’d lived a nightmare, refused to go away and take her memories with her. So when I say I reserved that word for someone who tore me apart, I never once guessed I’d grant that same title to the man who made me feel love again.
The thin line between love and hate everyone spoke of was bullshit. It was more like a dark, gaping pit I plunged into headfirst. There was no line, thin or thick, that separated the feelings. In that gaping hole, all emotions infused into an unbearable struggle to hold onto my soul or to hand it over to a man who’d left me unbalanced.