i sold the book of poems you gave me. i put it in the rummage sale for a quarter, and an overweight mennonite girl in a brown dress bought it.
i threw away the note that was still in it, ten years after you wrote it.
because, really? even though you acted like this guy who would do anything for a friend? all along, you were kind of a selfish jerk. and passive aggressive, too.
i should have known from the note you left in the book. re-reading it all these years later had me laughing in disbelief that you wrote it to give with a gift. on scrap paper, even.
what’s weird is that i don’t miss you, at all. i have no sadness about the decision to cut you out of my life.
it makes me more sad that i don’t miss you.
what was i doing when i thought i was maintaining an important relationship for 15 years?