I wrote this a few months ago, I never sent it to you, surprise:

we officially haven’t been friends anymore for about 4 months now. I am not just a stranger to you, I’m pretty sure you really don’t like me. The last time we talked, I had a sneaking suspicion that we were both being dishonest, you more so than me. You didn’t tell me anything and I hardly said everything I wanted to. I wish you had told me earlier. I wish you cared more. I wish I meant something more to you, more than just a sink to throw your dirty dishwater out. I wish that you tried, really tried to understand me during at least one point in our friendship. It’s ok though, I know you didn’t have room to care, with the way that you dealt with your own issues. I got that then, and I still get it now. I hope you’re happier.

I am sorry that you think that I am the worst. I am sorry that I have nothing to offer you. I am also sorry that I have been mad at you for a few months now. I’m not really sure if you deserve my anger or not. I don’t think you do. I know that you deserve to be happy or at least somewhat content. I hope you get there someday, you may be at that level already. I don’t know.

I should have told you what was going on with me, but I never felt like you cared, like if you were actually invested in me as a person. I always felt replaceable around you. I don’t miss your platitudes. I should have seen them differently though, I realize now looking back, that they are mantra to you, where they are empty words to me. I think you wanted me to hand them back to you, I sometimes did, but it’s hard for me, to be that knowingly deceiving to people I care about.

I am not sure if I miss you. My vision is still clouded by the nasty swamp of an end that you dumped on me. Did you really think that it wouldn’t hurt me? Did you want to hurt me?

I want desperately for you to be successful. I want to see you on the cover of a magazine, on a billboard somewhere, or maybe on the television screen in an expensive gown. I want you to forget about what I have supposedly done to you. I want to be only a small bug, the size of a needle’s point, that you can squash without a moment’s notice. I hope that you never think of me these days. I hope that I am far, far away in the far corners of your mind as I suspect I am. One day, I will think back on you and I will remember something good about when we shared ourselves with each other, when we occupied a similar time and space.

If by the awful hand of the universe, you do not find immediate or obvious success, I pray that you will be ok. I pray that you will be able to move on and keep trudging. I pray that you are developing a fortitude within yourself that will protect you from the world. You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You have real substance. You have an astounding perseverance, which I even found frightening at times.

I write in the journal you gave me for my birthday now. I don’t know if I ever told you how thoughtful I thought it was.

I will send you some love for as long as I remember you.

And to everyone else, this is how friendships end.

Love,

M