I’m not mad. I’m disappointed and hurt. Disappointed that it took this long, and hurt that you never planned on telling me. Disappointed I had to pry it out of you, and even after that, I still feel as if you’re more sorry you got caught than sorry you did it. I’m hurt at how badly you tried to punish me for making the same mistake, when all along you knew in the back of your mind you were just as bad. At least I owned up to it… you never could. I’m hurt because I feel as if I don’t mean half as much to you as you do to me. It’s not that I’m over it. I just don’t want to deal with this any longer than I have to. I heard what I needed to hear. Now let’s move on. I can’t stay mad at you. But I never stop hurting.
I miss the nights we spent staying up late asking each other random questions about anything we could think of just because we wanted to talk to each other, and those nights you’d ask to take me out to dinner during the week just because we couldn’t wait until the weekend to see each other, and the way we used to talk when I wasn’t constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing and I didn’t have to wonder whether or not you wanted to talk to me too.
