Sometimes I wonder if you still think about me.

Even if it’s a stray thought. A single neuron firing. An atom.

—

What was it that drew me to you in the first place?

Was it your beauty?

I vlogged because of you. I took pictures because of you. I spent hours looking at them, looking at you, at your eyes, your nose, your hair, your lips. I’d replay your voice. Your smile. Your laugh. Over and over and over again.

Am I still in love with you? Is love even an accurate word to describe what I had felt, and am feeling?

Or am I in love with the idea of you. What my brain had imagined could’ve been.

It’s abhorrent, now that I think about it. I can only speculate about what happened, even after so long, and even as my memory continues to fail me. All I know is that I gave you too many reasons to be disgusted by me, and to be scared of me.

But, can it be both?

It’s scary, for me and you. I know that I’m still in love with the idea of you. That— 100%. Not only with the idea of you, but with what I lost. What should’ve been.

But the former? Still being in love with you?

I haven’t thought of you romantically in years. Haven’t thought about the way my hand would fit around yours. Nor how I’d have to lean down just to kiss you on the lips.

Nor how my hands would feel against your skin.

I haven’t— well and truly. It’s been too long to even think about you like that.

I’ve forgotten what you look like.

But loving you? My mind says no. My heart says that it doesn’t know.

All I know is that my chest still tightens because of you.

I know that I made a lot of mistakes. Treated you badly. And even though I wish I had a reason to deny you grace, I don’t.

Would I still raze the sky from horizon to zenith for you?

No. Yes. Fuck.

I lean towards no. But can I really say that?

I know that if I saw you again, I’d shatter.

I saw a girl that looked like you. One that turned away from me like you. On the train yesterday.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. You. Whatever.

God.

You don’t even exist anymore. You only exist as this mess of anger and regret and hatred and indifference and guilt. I really would shatter if I saw you.

You symbolize a lot of things to me. Knocked me down a few pegs too.

I can’t blame you for anything. I can’t. And I hate that I can’t, but it’s the truth.

No matter how many AI’s I talk to. No matter how many stories that I write where you’re the villain.

You never were. I never was.

I’m pathetic. I really am.

I hate how you still affect me. Hate how you’re still this a part of me. I hate how I never even mattered to you at all. I hate how I was an afterthought. I hate how you never loved me. I hate how that future only existed in my head. I hate that I could never hold your hand. I hate that I could never kiss your lips. I hate that I could never spend the rest of my life with you. I hate that I could never cry with you. I hate that I could never be there with you. I hate that I could never touch you. I hate that I could never love you.

I can’t blame you. I need to move on from you. Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck you. Fuck me.

Fuck. Fuck.

Why am I still doing this? Why am I still writing? Why am I still pathetic?

THREE FUCKING YEARS NOW. THREE. THREE.

How. In. The. Fuck. Are we still here?

God WHAT AM I DOING?

Reset—

Are you still scared of me?

That’s what I’m scared of the most.

I hate that I ruined a good thing. And I hate even more that this had to happen to you.

I hate that you could regret it too. I hate that you could be guilty too. I hate that I hurt you and that, things have changed.

Are you still scared of me?

Like me— does your breath hitch when you see someone that has my silhouette? Does your pulse quicken when you hear my name and you’re harkened back to darker times?

I hope that you didn’t suffer like me. I wish. I pray. I should’ve prayed for you.

And I hope that you can eventually forget about me.

Are you still scared of me?

My pride boiled me alive. What a cruel and disgusting thing— it, what I did, me.

You didn’t deserve any of that.

I’m sorry again.

Forget me, please. Please. Please.

Wherever you are,

I hope that you’re doing well.

I hope that you’re doing better than me. Better than what could’ve been.

These words on this page are a testament to how we never could’ve happened.

Oh, I’ll flail around a little while longer,

but I hope that

I can forget you soon too