I hate you for breaking your promises, boy. I thought that friends knew better than that. You were no friend to me; you were worse. You chose to love me, to know me, and to adore the things about myself that only we saw.
I would rather not talk about my part in this, because now, all I can think about is English class. I kept stubbornly sitting across from you, trying to prove to myself that in one small way, our relationship had not changed. But you, in your spite, couldn't even let me hold on to that, dear one.
I don't hate you: I hate the silence that we observed.I hate that I stared at you, just to see if you would glance at me a time or two. I wanted to know that you missed me.
If you glanced, I never saw it. So now, there is one final picture of you left in my head. Stare at your desk, boy, determined to hate me, with your mouth set in a stoic line of spite.
Are you afraid? Were you unnerved like I was? I am afraid now, because I know that my very best, my very soul, can be forgotten. Before now, I did not know that I could be hated.
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