"In jealousy there is more of self-love than love."
--Francois De La Rochefoucauld
I was jealous of her. The attention she received, attention I never had. But the idea of someone actually thinking of me, acknowledging me... is just an idea. I wouldn't know about it. I was jealous of her openness. She told me about her, about what she wanted, about what she expected from life. She let me open her and read her like a book. I enjoyed reading. Sometimes I wish for a sequel, though I know it can never be again. I was jealous of her views on life. She saw the world for what it was, showing me people for what they are, for what they care, for what they desire. Pessimism is synonymous with reality. I was jealous of her sensibility. She knew the limits, and taught me that self-control is the greatest gift of conscience. She helped me to take control of my life. But most of all, I was jealous of her friends. Because I knew I could never love her.