You do me a grave injustice, Man. Your confession has put me at a great disadvantage. Truly. What I feel for you is a gift. A gift that I gave freely. In all honesty and good faith. I had no real expectations from it. Only that one day you might love me back. As truthfully and naturally as I love you.

Your confession makes a mockery of it. Why must I be privileged to this terrible knowledge? This foul and immoral thing that you have done? Am I to be your confessor, in order that you be granted some form of absolution? Is my existence in this thing that we are merely a convenience for you to escape what fate insists that you shall have? Am I to let you escape your doom because I am loved and still love?

No. You cannot have me as a shield. I cannot be privy to this secret that should cause chaos, tears, and possibly the invitation of pain and vengeance. You deserve all these consequences, and more.

My heart has shrivelled. It still beats for you, though you have abused its trust. My eyes and heart are no longer fooled. It is done. We are done. You must seek a real confessor. That type who metes out justice and punishment. You clearly feel you do not deserve it, but you do. And more. Face your fate. If you do not, I’ll drag you to hell to meet it.

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