He hated it all. 

He hated the powerlessness to make it all right. He hated the unnecessary events that led him to his perpetual grief. He hated the gross people who made everything awful for their own benefit. He hated the superficiality of the world and the coddling of those who weren’t worthy of what they had. He hated being hurt, and he hated hurting her, hated not being able to make her feel love. Hated her hatred for him. And he hated those who distracted her and promised her love they could not give her, love she would return to them undeserved. 

He was not angry. There was nothing left in him to be. He just hated it, hated how the dice had chosen to curse him and hated whatever it had been in her life that had made her so inhuman. He hated how his words were never enough, but forced their way out of him all the same. 

Every rational notion in existence told him to hate her for what she had done, but he could not, and she did enough of that on her own. But, without the hatred of all the rest, he would be driven insane. The hatred calmed his mind and gave him focus. If only, as he knew he could never be with her, he could let her go forever, never think of her again, then the world could at least be tolerable. He hated that he couldn’t, and he hated that he knew she would never leave his mind, leave his heart, and never forgive him and let herself love him openly. 

He hated death for not coming to claim him and release him from his hate.