(You) tried to love me, and that’s what counts. You put your whole heart into the attempt, but I guess you couldn’t get past my hundreds of thousands of flaws. Maybe you (got) sick of me, sick of trying to stay with me. I could tell that you were (tired), and believe me, so was I. It was hard anticipating your every reaction to my every word. I was scared (of) what you would do, say, or feel. As we went on, I thought more and more about you and less and less about myself. I started paying too much attention to the words “us” and “you” and not enough to the word “(me.)” Maybe that was the problem. I invested too much of myself into our relationship—more than you could handle. I probably scared you away. I wish I wouldn’t have, because you never got to see all of me. The best parts of me. But you left because you saw some of my worst parts—the bad, frightening ones. You probably thought that you were better off safe than (sorry.)
Well, you were right.
*sitting in class thinking* if you can read my mind sneeze