Anyways.

I believe you loved me.

A bit.

The way you loved your father... with a little bit of hope, but not really expecting much about it.

Like an every-day, have-to-deal-with-it feeling, of somebody who never cared, but you had to be grateful anyways, with what you had, because it could be worse.

Instead of regretting something that was never there, in the first place.

You know...
that kinda tiny bitty type of hope.

The tinniest chance of solace.

Solace of petite things, 

that made you forget, that you were really (really) hoping,

wishing, and then regretting being naive.

blaming yourself for being that way.

I believe you loved me.

Like that.

I believe you expected me to be contempt as well,

Because if you could do it, then I had to do it.

I believe that is also why yo were never there.

I believe you loved me that way.

So I believed you. When you said yo cared.

I knew it was half-hearted already.

But oh, what a waste.