“That’s impossible.” I fumed. “You just can’t forget me.”
“I didn’t say I forget you.” He icily said.“Well, why can’t you remember me?” I said, my voice was laced with frustration. I knew I shouldn’t care if he remembered me or not. We were done. Two years ago. But some things marked so deep in my skin, it was hard to scrub off.
He stared at my warm brown eyes before he said, “I’m just not the type who needs or even wants to remember a person who selfishly use me as a tool of love, especially when that person truly love my brother.” He shrugged and walked away.
My feet felt cemented. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t deny what he said. It was true, I used him. I loved using people. But I didn’t intend on feeling something intimate for him. And I knew, even before he found out, I fell hard for him. Now, I suffered. I paid the consequences of my selfish actions. I regretted using him, but if I couldn’t take it back, then I would say I damn enjoyed the moments while I was using him.