I fell and scraped my knees and I was crying about it. What was I, four? I had allowed him to hurt me to some degree, and it frustrated me that he had that power over me. He didn't deserve that power over me.

Maybe it was the unsettling resemblance. The bright green eyes, the dark brown hair, the way his words could make me feel cared for or attractive to him, the way he held my hand and kissed it. The side of me that used logic knew that, clearly, he was a bad idea. "Go home!" "Stop!" "He'll hurt you!" Of course I didn't listen.

My heart had been beating faster the whole time I was with him and my fingertips had gone cold. I felt a passion that I was almost sure had died, that I hadn't felt for almost a year and a half, running red in my veins again. And it was exciting. The logical side of me understood though. The logical side of me knew his type, knew his games and his lines, knew not to let myself be swept up in his charm.

But I didn't stop him when he leaned in to kiss me. I didn't stop him when his mouth forced mine open and his warm breath sent deceit through my skin and into my core. Only after several minutes of this did my judgement take over, pushing him away. Putting my hands lightly on his chest and asking him to please take me home, it was almost one.

I ignored the rapid beat in my chest that waited for more.

I was angry. I was angry and I didn't have a right to be. I was angry that he kissed her, but how could I be? When he had kissed me so quickly, why shouldn't he kiss her? I wasn't his. He wasn't mine. He had done nothing wrong. He was simply "exploring his options" as he so delicately put it. But it seemed that the fact that I almost wasn't allowed to be mad at him made me even angrier.

The detective in me wanted to catch him in the act. Wanted to figure out all the pieces, link them together, and jump out from around the corner screaming "Ha! Got you!" while pointing a finger in his face. No. I wasn't angry.

I was furious.

My skin was hot when I woke up the next morning. My eyes felt like they must have been a darker color than usual because of the fire running just under my skin. I went through my day convinced that I was stupid for being angry, that I just needed to shake it off. But I wasn't being stupid. And I wasn't angry.

Not at him.

The rage I felt wasn't new. It was an old flame that lived in my spirit that had been re-ignited by this event. A flame that I never put out, that I never let run free. I never felt this fire because I had buried it deeply in the confines of my heart.

I hid it because the rage was for someone I could never feel this kind of fire toward. My love for him had banned me from any negative feeling toward him. Despite the hurt and lies he drilled into me over our year long relationship, I couldn't be angry with him. The need to scream and kick and throw things, like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum, was suppressed with a cold numbness after my real love had hurt me a year and a half ago.

Somehow, a hidden rage had been eating me away inside and I hadn't realized it. I was hurt over this new chapter in my life, and I was angry, and yet somehow it had freed me from something I hadn't even known was killing me.

A blessing in disguise.