I've spent quite some time pondering whether I was right to feel hurt by you, or whether I was just being overly sensitive and dramatic. I wondered this because you never insulted me to my face, yelled at me or picked a fight with me. Instead, you hurt me in much more subtle, more indirect ways. But that doesn't make my feelings any less valid.
You hurt me when you started treating me differently from the way you used to...and I can pinpoint the exact moment when that change happened. You didn't know it, but I started to feel more and more alienated...like I was different in a bad way.
You hurt me when you clearly chose a side. Not because it wasn't my side; just because it was a shitty thing to do, and it caused my trust in you to crumble.
You hurt me by hurting the people I care about.
After a while I started to realize that the only times we ever saw each other anymore were because of my effort, and by continuing to make that effort, knowing you wouldn't appreciate it or reciprocate it, I was being unkind and disrespectful to myself.
Friendship is a two way street, and spending time with me, getting to know me and being my friend are choices that you weren't making. That hurt.
You were never outrightly mean to me, but I almost think that would have been easier to deal with. At least then I would’ve known for sure where we stood, and maybe I could’ve written you off and moved on long ago, rather than letting the doubts, uncertainties and questions—questions about my worth and whether or not I was good enough—fester in my brain. I haven’t gotten over it; I’ve just gotten used to it. Bad habits really are hard to break…and caring about your opinion is one of mine.
I don't know why I stood by and watched as you reached out to everyone but me, the person who probably needed it the most. I don’t know why I couldn’t recognize what was really happening—that you were just being a bad friend to me. Okay, sure, you were there for me once, and you did make me feel cared about, and I do appreciate that. That doesn’t erase the fact that you hurt me, though.
I am fully aware that this next part is going to sound overly sensitive and dramatic, but I’m going to say it anyway: my stomach still jumps when your name is mentioned. Ah, the lovely feeling that only the people who’ve hurt me can create. I think it happens because you’re mentioned so casually, a stark contrast to the bitter taste you left in my mouth, and it reminds me of a fact I’m usually trying to forget—that, in some distant, far-off world, there is this cool, collected version of you that still exists, that I apparently will never get to see. A version of you that still doesn’t realize that you changed on me, betrayed my trust, and hurt me.
But that’s okay; I’m moving on.