Hurricanes and casualties.

They are tough and distant, they can't care less and they are completely foreign to us. They say one thing, and they do another, and it confuses us to no end, but we stay and wait anyway. And then there's the hurt. The hurt that comes from all the broken promises, that to them were not broken, or made, or promises in the first place, that to them mean nothing, but to us meant two weeks of waiting for that one phone call to be made, among their many, to take us out to that place they said they would, or watch this movie they said they wanted.

It's not that they completely mistreat us. On the contrary, they can be the kindest things on earth, all nice and sweet, asking how was your day, and if you got your paper done ... but no more.

And here we wait. We crave. We hanker. We wish for that one miraculous moment when they would turn and notice us, and know that we're sitting there, hoping he'd stay a little longer for us, even when he doesn't have to. But he leaves anyway. And our day is gone. We leave too, in defeat.

Why though? Why do we stay? And linger? And second-guess and read into things? Because of the nights, when all's been said and done, and we find ourselves in tears, hiding from their view, but they come over and pick us up, and hold us in their arms, and tell us that they do like us, but they can't do so and such, and so we have to be good, and listen to them, or else risk losing them, and we don't want that.

They press their foreheads into our tear-stained cheeks, and they tell us what we want to hear. Words go right into our ears, followed by their heaving breaths. It doesn't matter what they say anymore, because we are just glad to be in their arms again, and that everything is going to be okay. They tell us again, in all earnesty, they they like us, it's just, and so, but yes.

And of course, we cave. We give in to them, and we stay just that bit longer. At the back our of heads is the familiarity of this situation. Of how many times this has happened in the past. And how many times we've been on that same lap, sobbing softly because something similar went wrong, and that same, low, paternal voice tells us it's just, and so, but yes.

They like us. They really do.

But we cave in anyway. We play into their big, strong hands, even though we know they are leading us on, we know the whole point of it was to slip their hands up our shirts and enter us in our weakest moment.

We said no. We won't let them. Almost playfully.

And they stand before us, tall and domineering, daring us to say no. They give us the chance, say no.

The damage is done. For nights to come we will think back on it, on how they held us close to them, almost like we were their property, theirs to care, theirs to love.

They walk off satisfied, glad to have gotten what they wanted.

It's torture, but we will hang on forever, for the sake of these moments. They come far and few, but we want so badly to relive it that we trick ourselves into thinking that there's no way he's not sincere this time or it's okay if he lied it doesn't matter we don't care or that things are okay now.

But after eight months, you see the pattern, and you know things will never be okay. And then nostalgia becomes diluted with this dull, throbbing pain in you, recognizing your helplessness in the face of all this, knowing you will never be free again.

There is just something nice guys cannot give us sadistic girls. We will get along with them well, we will love hanging out with them, we'll call them sweet and adorable, we'll say they are the nicest guys in the world ... and we will pray that they find someone, because we know we'll never be the one for them.

I talked to a friend once about how I don't want to hurt this guy who likes me, because I feel like I'm a hurricane, and he'd be my casualty.

And all this while, I was the willing casualty to someone else's hurricane.