I'm sitting here, watching him whisper to another girl. That used to be me. It used to be me that he would sit that close to all hour. It used to be me who got to feel how perfect is heartbeat felt on top of mine when we hugged. He would put his face so close to mine, so close that I was afraid to breathe. He told me that he loved me every day. He would look at me as if he was as in love with me as I was with him. He pretended. I should've known. I should've known that somebody like me could never have a person like him. And to be perfectly honest, I think that, deep down, I did know. I knew that something so perfect could never last. What we had, or, rather, what I thought we had, was like a delicate butterfly. It was beautiful from a slight distance, but the moment it was touched, crumbled into grimy, gray dust. He doesn't know that he crushed my heart and threw it into the dust, but he did it, whether he is aware of it or not. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I still love him with every fiber of my being. I still dream of him, I still think of him every second of every day, and I'm still wishing for a miracle. A miracle that will take me back in time to fix what happened. A miracle that would allow me to make him fall in love with me. But wishes are merely wishes, and the past is already set in stone. And, you know, the only thing I regret is letting him walk away so easily. I don't regret making him feel bad for every time he jokingly insulted me and took it back immediately. I don't regret pouring my heart out to him, nor do I regret telling him that he was perfect for me. I don't regret letting him know that he was the one keeping me sane through what I was going through in life. And finally, I don't regret loving him. Not for a second will I ever regret giving him my heart. Do you know why? Because before he broke my heart, he gave me the time of my life.