Eight months ago.

A few days ago, I listened to the voice mail you left me a day after we broke up.

In it, you asked me to go fuck myself. I still remember that night. I still remember how excited I was about my new mail box service and how you managed to spoil it just like my day. I remember wondering how someone I chose to show all my scars to could be so cruel. 

A month ago, I called you at 6 AM when my mom wasn't home. I expected you to ignore it, but you answered it and I felt my heart fall down to my knees. You probably thought it was because I missed you, but truthfully it was because I had prepared myself to fight back, and instead, I asked you how you were. You said you were fine, I smiled and hung up. That was the last proper conversation we had. 

I made sure to let go of you. 

Fast forward two months, I still wonder how you are. I still wonder if your brother recovered from that accident or if you adopted a new cat. 

If you ever hear me say this, you would probably blush like you used to whenever I said something sweet (which I rarely did. Very very rarely)

You'd probably think I think these things because I loved you and/or I still love you, that I still want you. But that is not the case. 

You see, eight months ago, I would've given anything to make sure you were happy. And now, I remember you as a person I shared myself with. 

But it is not eight months ago.

It is now, and now I don't miss you. 

And maybe things will be better someday. Maybe you will understand that I'm not what you think I am. And maybe, we will start being friends.

But for right now? 

Go fuck yourself.