Dear *****,

It’s been three months now.

The 20^th of each month is always the hardest for me. I remember it as if it was yesterday. You told me that you were going into surgery and there was a 85-90% chance that you would die. I didn’t realise the absurdity of those figures till it was too late. My best friend at the time got a message after last period saying you weren’t going to make it. In an instant, I broke down, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hand over my mouth muffling my screams. I found out you lied to me later that day. I learnt that you were alive and that it was all an act, a desperate attempt for attention. The surgery you didn’t make up but there was never any chance of death. I tried to commit that night. I couldn’t understand why the person I trusted the most would do that to me. I had told you everything. You knew how fragile and broken I was. You had talked me out of committing before and had even offered to forge me a note to get out of swimming because of my scars. I was stupid. I blamed myself and the first time you weren’t there to stop me I nearly died. I passed out to the thoughts of “I hope he’s happy now.” I didn’t die though. I woke up the next morning hating myself more than ever. I had to go to school the next day and tell your two best friends that you had lied to them. The three of us went to see the counsellor who I saw regularly for two months afterward.

Now I have to go to school every day just to see you there smiling and laughing and living. It hurts. It’s like I’m being stabbed repeatedly in the heart. I have to smile and bear it. Pretend it’s all okay because everyone else forgot about months ago. I told you that I had forgiven you but in all honesty I hate you. I hate you for what you did to me. I hate how you get to be happy after you pushed me into this sea of depression.

So fck you *****, fck you