Out of all the notes on this site talking about fucked up love and sad things and how it’ll never be the same, I have the gall to think mine is better.
I’m wrong, of course, but that’s just the competition in me I’ll never get over.
I’m sorry that I’m so far away. I’m sorry I’m not there. I’m sorry that we stopped talking and I’m sorry I’m not your snow bunny. I’m sorry, most of all, that none of that is my fault.
I’m sorry that you left.
I’m sorry that it bothered me.
I’m sorry that I still care.
I’m really sorry that Jack’s Mannequin will always remind me of you, and as a consequence I can’t listen to them at all anymore. It honestly hurts, high up in my chest.
And I hate that. I hate being sappy and I hate being melodramatic and I hate being everything that a teenager girl is.
I hate it. But it’s true.
As awful as I am, you at least know that I don’t lie. Not to you, at least. In fact, out of all the people in the world, I’ve lied to you the least. Which means, not at all.
It destroys me when you don’t write back and I can’t believe I let you leave for two years and took you back without a thought.
If you can take someone back that wasn’t ever really there.
I wish I could tell you how much hurt you’ve bestowed on my shoulders. And how much happiness.
I’m not sure if you’re worth it. I’m not sure if I am.
But I intend to find out.
I do love you, you know.