Last night you told me a story about a girl named Rachel. How she said what she did not mean and how you believed it because it was what you wanted to hear at the time. I sat there and comforted you through your tales of lament but kept silent about the story I knew would soon be told. I don’t know why I do that. You give me ample opportunity to warn you, but I never take them. I guess I just like seeing you happy. Because when I say I love you, I mean it. Too bad this time you’re the one who doesn’t.