why do i still love you? in some point, in some way, deep down? why do i have this urge to find your number and call you, and just say, hey, i think about you, i still think about you.
you were so mean, you made me cry, but not because you ignored me, because you were too much. you were always talking about what i wasn’t. i knew deep down that i was better than you. not in a mean way, just because i had these feelings for a life that was real, and you wanted money, and that was it.
but we had no much fun. we laughed. to this day, if i had to be in room with someone, it would be you. we could laugh, forever, for always. we could make up the most hilarious scenario about anything. why a i writing this.
i have someone else. someone better. someone who loves me. someone who doesn’t say the mean things you did. but i still have dreams about you. and flashbacks. and memory that refuse to fade.