It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. Nothing matters, because to him, It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter That when I hear his name, my gut still aches. It doesn't matter that the girl he is with I wish was really me. It doesn't matter that I know these feelings might actually be fake. It doesn't matter that I'm obsessed with an idea and not what I really see. It doesn't matter that every time I get close to uncaring, the picture of us
(the one where we're content just staring at each other, or maybe the one where you're crying because you fell in love with me on accident)
is back in my head. It doesn't matter that he's different, that I'm different. That we'd be different. Maybe better, probably worse. It doesn't matter that I will never be able to find out. It doesn't matter that I'm counting down the days till the anniversary of our split. Because maybe (hopefully, probably not) on that day, I'll snap out of this caring. It doesn't matter that we agreed we hoped we'd find our way back to each other. It doesn't matter. But for some stupid reason, It ******* does.