I hack your email every couple of weeks.
I thought you might catch on, actually. It’s not safe to use the same password for everything. I know it’s creepy and stalkerish and you’d probably flip if you found out (or maybe you wouldn’t. I never know what you’d do. You are a mystery to me, even after all these years). I just look over what you’re up to, your school assignments, and the cute exchanges with your girlfriend. They really are sweet. They make me so sick and hateful, and I tell myself all kinds of lies about how much better than her I probably am. But that can’t be true, and I know it. She seems really great.
But it’s also really nastily pleasant to see her notes wondering where you are and why you’re so distant all the time. At least it’s not just me, I think. I bet you totally like me better than her deep down, even though you avoid me just as much. It’s the way you are, you amazing, brilliant emotional cripple, and I understand that more than she ever can, because we’re so alike. I’m screwed up in all the same ways you are. And I say that like it’s some kind of trophy that means I deserve you more.
We’re so close, and so similar, but you’re so loved, and you’re going to great places in the world, and I’m not. I can’t even be bothered trying to succeed. The only thing that makes me feel like life is worth working for is you. It’s like all of my major life decisions have been based around either getting close to you or catching up to you, making myself something worth being with you. And I never will. You’re just too far away.
And the next time I see you (next time you happen to decide to pay attention to me) we’ll laugh and joke about stupid shit like we always have and nothing will ever, ever change.
I hope, so much, that you’re happy. You’d never tell me if you weren’t, but maybe you’ll never tell anybody.