"It makes me wonder if it's just hate." Alistair grinned, eyes locked on mine, ever-knowing. Ever-insufferable.

I leaned heavily against the metallic railing, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "What's that supposed to mean?" As if I didn't know the answer.

"I know your history with him, Josh. Brothers-in-arms to a lover." She said. "Ever heard of the saying 'the deeper the love, the deeper the hate?'"

"I don't pay attention to bullshit."

She only grew more amused. "You're the only person he spares, and he's the only person you don't talk glib about."

"So you're a writer now?" Tone too sharp. Softer. Don't let her get to you. Countless have tried. She can't be the one who succeeds. "By your logic, the reason I don't 'talk glib' about him is because I hate him too much to bother sugarcoating it. And as for him.." I burn the hope that was about to lace my words. "It's because he hates me enough that he wants me to see how much he'll torment me alive."

She stared at me and sighed. "There's no winning this, is there?"

I'm glad you know.

I'm generally optimistic about most things, but I become pessimistic when it comes to my health. Well--more than that, really. I'm quite paranoid about it. How would that work then?