I’m going to write a story.
A story about what happened.
Because right now there’s not much left to do.
Because even though this absolutely killed me, and I spent the night crying, and I can’t eat anymore without feeling nauseous, and I can’t even think about what happened without feeling a wave of emotions, without wanting to curl up into a ball and cry.
Without wanting to curl up into a ball and die.
And even though all those things, it’s pretty obvious that you couldn’t care less.
That it doesn’t bother you at all what you did to me or how I feel.
And that’s what hurts the most.
Not the betrayal, or being forgotten about, not included, replaced, or even lied to.
No, what hurts the most is that you don’t care.
That you don’t even have the decency to apologize or even talk to me.
That’s what's killing me.
That I don’t even matter anymore.