Precious Love
"Deagol, my love," he says. He calls me that but he doesn't mean it. He only ever does when he wants something. If he really meant it, I'd be oh so happy, but he just wants what I found, all bright and shining in the sunlight. He doesn't care about me.
And I gave him a present already, a lovely present, much nicer than I would have given anybody else, much nicer than he's ever given me, and now he wants this ring as well but he's not getting it. I don't care if he doesn't like it, if he stops being my friend because better that than him pretending he loves me when he doesn't, not the way I love him. He calls me love but I'm not, not to him, and if he lies with his words then he shan't take this away from me, no, it's mine. I finds it and I keeps it.
"I wants it," he says, and I know that he does but I wants it too and I'm the one that has it, so there. Mine. My ring, gleaming and glinting and gold. And he don't love me and he don't deserve another present and he never gave me anything nice and I hates him, hates him for not loving me in truth and it's mine, mine, mine now.
All mine.