Untitled (If you think of a good one let me know.)

Her words are sweet, respectful, and sincere. It's like having your heart savagely ripped out by the most adorable little puppy you've ever met. It's the ultimate in 'friendly fire' because she's not trying to hurt you; she's trying to compliment you, but she might as well give you a gun and tell you to shoot yourself. Heck, she might as well be the one pulling the trigger.
The term 'punch to the gut' doesn't do her words justice. Neither does 'kick in the teeth'. That phrase she uttered is the real reason mankind has thousands of different languages. Ever since man learned to speak he's been trying to find a way to express how it feels to be told what I was told, and when one language fails him, he moves on to the next. Maybe that's why 'a picture is worth a thousand words', because you can't convey that kind of hurt with mere language.
Now that I've heard it I'm part of an exclusive and unwanted fraternity, and every guy in the frat house has a scar and a story. What they don't have is words, words that will make her, and her 'compliment', disappear. Words will not erase the sight of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the smell of her hair, or the rare touch of her skin. Sadly, they only have one word for me: time. Time will heal all wounds. It's the medicine that tastes awful, but works. It's the cure that's almost as bad as the disease. It's effective, but it might kill you first. It's a curmudgeonly being that double and triple checks everything to make sure it's done right. If nothing else, time is thorough, but the process, wow. The process is painful.
So here I am, sitting around a campfire like millions of men did before me, reflecting on a shattered relationship and trying to figure out where it all went wrong. What did I do that made her feel that way? It's a hopeless endeavour, because no matter how hard I try, all I can do is mentally replay the events from last week over and over again.
She is sitting in a lawn chair by the fire, shivering, even though it's technically still summer. She has a t-shirt on, and shorts, but the shorts aren't too short, and the t-shirt isn't revealing. She looks good, but also classy. There are a half-a-dozen guys our age around her, all vying for her attention, but none of them notice the little things I do. I walk up behind her, and touch her shoulder. The other guys are momentarily distracted trying to one up each other's stories. She glances up at me. It's easy to forget everything while staring into those beautiful brown eyes. Focus, Jason, focus!!
"You look cold. Do you want a blanket or something?" I stammer.
I can tell she's thinking about it. She has this expression, which is difficult to describe. She tightens her lips and scrunches her brow, but in a frustratingly beautiful way.
"No thanks," she finally says, "I'm not going to stay out here much longer." I don't care either way; I'm just looking for an excuse to talk to her, although the fact that she's leaving is a bit of a downer. I shrug.
"Alright, I was just checking."
She gives me a small, but perfect, smile.
"Thanks for asking," she replies. "you're like a brother to me."