Quick little drabble that simply popped into my disprganized mind one day. This is pretty much to be interpreted by the reader as they may. Flames/Comments welcome, as always! :D


It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I wasn't supposed to lose myself.

This was supposed to be meaningless.

It had been hard enough to bring myself to ask him to sleep with me. When he reluctantly agreed, the next step was to bring myself to not care about him. It was just sex. Meaningless, meaningless sex.

He was lonely, and I was depressed. He told me right away that it wouldn't mean anything. For some reason, I led myself to believe I could handle that.

Then the best friend I'd ever known got involved. Having been heartbroken by him before, my best friend warned me to stay away from him, despite our collective friendship since day one. It was amazing how much things change. I almost wished I'd listened to him – but I can't bring myself to regret anything. It was him after all. I loved him.

I realized that I loved him quickly. I didn't acknowledge it for fear of emotional breakdown until sometime later. To be perfectly honest, I still haven't accepted it. It's not right. Not normal. I was forbidden to love him.

When I discovered all the other people he was with, it shouldn't have disturbed me. I shouldn't have cried for him, because of him – it was supposed to be meaningless. I was supposed to be calm, and not care what he did.

I wish I could've been like him, honestly. Heartless. Without feeling. Lifeless, perhaps. But it was this lifelessness that always drew me in, bringing me back each time. The fact that someone can watch me moan his name and writhe in hormonal turmoil and still say he feels nothing is what it is. That feeling of complete and utter apathy towards me. It makes me try to change that feeling in him. He knows that. It never works.

When I told him how I felt, he stared at me. He then proceeded to tell me that he could never have feelings for one of his best friends. It was unethical. Wrong. Inappropriate. It just couldn't be. He'd left it at that, which I pretended was fine with me.

I hated him.

And then he told me the most important thing I'd ever heard for the rest of my now considerably shortened life.

It wasn't the news that shocked me. It was the emotional delivery of it all – he acted like he cared, like it was important to him, how I felt. It was foolish for me to think such things – he had no sympathy. He cared about himself, and covering his ass. The most important thing to him was leaving me and never coming back. Not that, after hearing what he'd had to say, I would've come back.

Little did I know, it was too late, and it wouldn't have mattered if I'd come back or not.

But none of it matters today, of course. It doesn't matter how many times we had sex. It doesn't matter how many times my best friend warned me about him, how many people's hearts he'd broken, or the fact that he feels nothing at all for the tiny twink he'd known since preschool.

I can only hope he cares just enough to read this, and possibly even emit an emotional response. If not, I wouldn't have been surprised. If he's gone like I will be all too soon, I would kindly ask the reader to burn this collection of prose. I don't want anyone to know how weak I was. How pathetic I still am, and who it was that will soon cause my end.

In approximately two months' time, I will die of AIDS. Kenny McKormick will die within the week from the same cause. Ironically, the various other sexual partners involved with him were not diseased, and didn't seem to care that we were. Maybe if I hadn't fallen for him, I wouldn't be sick either – maybe I'd have had the sense to stop.

In short, I'm dying of love. And somehow, I can't bring myself to regret a minute of it.

Signed, Kyle Broflovski.