I’m getting better.
Not that you probably care, but that’s ok.
I told you that I always had feelings for you despite knowing that you never had any feelings for me. And I still spend every single day wondering how we got this far, and wondering if things would be different if I had been less eager to be with you.
I wish I hated you. I wish that I could hate you so that when I have see you I don’t want to just cry.
But I don’t hate you. Not at all. Sometimes, I even wish we were still fuck buddies. But I’m wishing that less and less often.
Because I’m getting better.