he'll never read this

I'm grieving us. The good parts of what made us work, and the idealized version of us. There are times when I think about you. But letting myself indulge in the good times is my personal hell, my very specific method of self-harm. Because as much as I want to remember, to re-imagine, nothing will change. The past is the past, and the present will forever have you permanently removed from my life. I accept this, even though typing these words forms a lump in my throat and stings my eyes still. We were alike in a lot of ways. That's why we worked so well at first. But we are both oriented in fundamentally opposing ways. Which is why we failed. We represented the shadow of the other, and seeing a mirrored version of what we could be scared the hell out of us. I'm pretty sure you'll hate me forever, but this deterioration was and will always be your fault. My reaction to your destruction is what you hate. You hate how I responded, and I hate your blindness. I hate that you will never see…