It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists entirely in my memory, on that comfortable blue couch in your old temporary apartment - 160 Morton, I still remember the address from when you bought 50 dollars worth of subway for delivery on your dads card because the 6 frozen pizzas you had bought on the monday weren’t enough to last you a week.

The person I thought you were exists only on the second floor of the empty arts building, dancing and singing, on the picnic bench where I told you that you didn’t realize the effect you had on people, in that small campus and our trips to the nearby cities where we confided in each other and you sought my advice, i sought your comfort and the warmth of your hand gripping my shoulder when it was evident my own hands quivered and trembled.

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists merely in my memory - but that isn’t entirely fair to you, I guess. You’ve always been better lying on the couch, head in my lap, than answering your messages, weeks old and still unread.

But still - does it hurt that much to even pretend you still care about me?

(7 separate messages. It’s been a week. Only when I confront you do you apologize, tell me that you’ve been having a bad time.)

(Explanation. Excuse. Explanation, not excuse. I thought we agreed on this.)

My memory erases the blemishes on our record, the bad moments - a relapse, anger, your hands on her thighs, lounging on the beach yet still asking me to watch your shoes.

Why can’t I be the ******* for once? It’s that emotion again, tenfold but dulled. I’m not angry, just disappointed. Maybe both. I don’t know. I never know when it comes to you.