I told him everything and I hoped that it would hurt. (It must've, I heard him crying.) I read him old journal entries out loud while he held his head in his hands and trembled. I told him about my scars. He kept asking why and when, as if that mattered. I told him I hated him, and he told me I was a bad liar. Minutes dragged on for hours, days. He begged for forgiveness, and I said I needed time. I told him that I'd been waiting for him for eight years and it needed to stop. He told me I hadn't been the only one waiting, and I asked him if he meant it. I told him I didn't know if I could trust him. He told me he'd wait. I told him that if he fucking lied to me, I would make him regret it. He told me he loved me. I told him to give me time.
We still love each other even though it's more like a knife fight.