You remember the name of my childhood hamster, the song I hum when I’m nervous, and the exact date we had our first fight. You remember me better than I remember myself. I hate that no one else will ever know that version of me.
I never did. I hate that I can’t hate you. I hate that after everything—the silence, the distance, the pretending to be fine—if you showed up at my door right now, I’d still let you in. And you probably know it. 10 reasons why i hate you
Falling asleep on a phone call. Being quiet without it being awkward. Letting someone see me cry without explaining why. I hate that I now walk through the world knowing exactly what I’m missing. You remember the name of my childhood hamster,
Not with anger—with patience. Like you’d already forgiven me before I even said sorry. I hate that I learned how to be better because of you, and now I have to be better without you. I never did
It’s not empty. It’s heavy. It sits on my chest at 2 a.m. wearing your old hoodie. I hate that you don’t have to be here to be everywhere.
That cracked bench near the bus stop. The 24-hour diner with bad coffee. Now I can’t walk past them without my chest tightening. You ruined geography.
It’s not loud or polite. It’s the kind of laugh that starts as a snort and ends as a wheeze. I hate that I can still hear it in crowded rooms where you’re not standing.