I like that you are you and I am I, and that I never have to worry about being you.

Because I love you but I'm not sure that I like you. I sometimes wonder if that's what ambivalence is: Loving someone but not liking him.

Other times I wonder what the difference between like and love is, anyway. I guess a lot of people would tell me that love is a very strong like for someone. But I wonder if anyone would tell me that like is just a very weak love for someone?

And then I wonder some more, because that's what I'm good at, you know?--wondering. I wonder if like and love are really all that comparable at all. I wonder if you can love someone without liking him; if you can like someone without loving him?

I think that you can, because I think that I do. And feelings can't be wrong, right? If you're feeling something, then it must be real, mustn't it?

If you were in a coma, I'd read to you every day. I'd hold your hand as I watched fluids drip, drip, drip from a bag, through a tube, and into your veins. I'd cry a lot because hospitals are scary, but I'd still read to you and hold your hand.

When you finally awoke, I'd be gone. Maybe someone would tell you I had been there, and what I had done. Maybe they wouldn't, but that wouldn't matter.

I think that that's what ambivalence is: Loving someone enough to look after him when he's dead to the world, but not liking him enough to be there when he finally comes to.

"I like things that I like, but I love everything. There's more choice in 'like,' because even the worst things have things to love in them." -Cassie, Skins