I hate that I still think you’re a good person.
I hate that I still think about seeing you again. In the street, at a cafe, in a crowded room. I hate that you would still affect me. I hate that we would make eye contact and I would crumble, we would small talk about everything happening in our lives, and I would have to quiet my heart from jumping out of my chest. I hate that you still get to me.
I hate that I am still proud of you when you accomplish something. I still hope that you continue to grow and succeed, I still hope that you fulfill all of those dreams you always spoke to me about. I hate that I think of you often, that I believe in you, after all of this time, after all of this hurt.
I hate that I care. I hate that I care so fucking much. That I can’t let this go, that I can’t seem to wash you off of my skin. I hate that I still think we were perfect for eachother, I hate that my head fills up with memories of you whenever I hear your name, whenever I think I hear your voice. I hate that I still want to share things with you, I still want to call you when I have a bad day, I still want to make space for you in my life.
I hate that I know better. That I asked you to show up, and you never did. That I asked you to be more for me, more for us, and you couldn’t. I hate that I loved you, and you never really loved me back, you never really tried.
And I think that is what hurts the most — that I still think you’re a good person. Despite the lack of effort, despite the fact that you truly did not care enough to make us work. I still think you’re a good person, a beautiful person, a person who deserves the world, even if you managed to break mine into pieces. I still think you and I could have made it, I still make excuses for you and I. I still hope.
I hate that I still hope.