Sometimes I think about what we had, then I think about you. I barely know you. I knew your birthday, but I didn’t know what your favorite color was, nor know what animal you like, or how your life is at home. I wish I knew about those things. You told me I was the one that messed everything up, but I didn’t feel loved. You didn’t text me, you didn’t call, didn’t reach out. I always did. Until one day, I stopped. I don’t miss you. I don’t carry guilt anymore. Just because I stopped talking to you at the end, doesn’t mean I hated you. Or that I wanted you to die. I didn’t text you because you didn’t either, I didn’t text you because I was feeling bad. I wanted to be gone at this moment, and you didn’t know, didn’t even care to ask why my reposts were depressing. Sometimes I wonder how you really felt. I hope you carry the guilt I had to carry. But I also don’t. I can’t be that mean to someone I once loved. Goodnight