Fuck You I’m Finally Deleting Your Number

It's time to move on
Jason Edwards

I don’t want you to love me as a friend.

I don’t want you to see me as something that happened to you once. I don’t want you to see me as someone you pity, because you’ve moved on and I haven’t, and you’re so cool and I’m just somebody who can’t seem to get over it. I don’t want you to feel bad for me. I don’t want you to feel like you’re a better person because you’ve found the light, because you’ve found a new life without me in it, because you don’t harp on things you cannot change (which is so unlike me, I guess).

I also don’t want to be embarrassed by how I feel for you, either. And that’s exactly how you make me feel. You make me feel so stupid that I’m not over it. That I still get drunk and angry about the way things ended up. And I hate that you still bother me so much when you cancel plans or don’t ask how I’m doing or that you never include me in any real way in your life but you just pretend that you do. Aren’t you so impressive? Aren’t you so clever? You get this sense of entitlement, too, whether you realize it or not. Like you’re subconsciously scoffing at me, thinking, Fuck me, really? What is up with this girl? Like, get over it. It’s been so long. We didn’t work out. That’s life. It is what it is. Deal with it.

You see me as this fragile thing, emotionally trialed and “suddenly so sensitive.” Remember when you said to me, “Yeah, we can hang out. Just don’t cry on me like the last time.” Like, fuck you. So what if I do? What, are you going to avoid me forever? You say you’re my friend. So be my fucking friend. You have no idea how mean you can be and how disgusting your energy is when I’m feeling vulnerable like that, when I’m admitting how I feel and you just resist me like a bastard who knows nothing about being gracious or kind, and instead gets mad at me for bringing it up again just because you don’t want to hear it. Oh the terror of having someone out there in the world who loves you, who worries about you, whose soul is interrupted by you. You act like it’s a burden, like I’m annoying you, like it’s something painful that’s being done to you. And you don’t want to hear it because you have enough going on in your life and you don’t want all this “drama” as you call it. Things are never going to change between us. Life is shitty, you say after that. But, it is what it is. “It is what it is.” You make it sound so idiot casual, like you went to some store for something you didn’t really need and oops, oh no, it just so happened to be closed. “It is what it is.”

And yet here I am, remembering the way you kissed me, remembering the way we were and could have been, and then there I go…

But what makes it so much worse is that you refuse to acknowledge what I’m going through. You don’t have to understand me. You don’t have to wonder why it’s taking me so long to deal with this. But be there for me. Once upon a time you did love me and once upon a time you did feel what I’m feeling, too. So why are you acting like you have no idea what this feels like? Why do you have to act so cool all the goddamn time? It’s not like I’m showing up at your door acting psycho, kicking in your windows at 3 a.m., or screaming your name on the street in some distressed frenzy. I’m just saying I love you. That I wish you’d let me in a little. And yes, OK, fine, maybe my delivery isn’t the best (I’ve been drinking too much) but I just had to say it. I want you to know that I don’t love easily, that I’ve never seen my life with anyone but you. I just wish you missed me. I wish you heard me. And I hate that I wish either of those things from someone who could ultimately care less.

But that’s when I realize that we’ll never be friends. I’ve never been embarrassed by my feelings and the fact that I am now is a confirmation that this isn’t right. You’re done, too. You say it first. You’re over it. Nope, that’s it. Done. Done. Done. I stare at my cellphone with mascara tears, flushed hot and out of breath, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the stomach.

And without responding, without thinking twice, I let you have the last word and I delete your number.

Nope, that’s it. It is what it is, right?

Thanks for letting me go. TC mark

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