Sometimes I imagine us meeting up on a bench somewhere and talking. The idea feels romantic and enticing. We'd have to much time to cover, so much to say to each other, so much to catch up on and reminisce about, so many questions to ask and answer.
But what's funny is that the conversation never ends well, even in my imagination. You belittle me, or you mock the situation, or deny the events, or you twist the facts or reveal some new betrayal that I didn't even know about. You're callous and manipulative, even in my fantasy.
It's made me realize that my relationship with you, the closeness I felt was always just an expression of self harm for me. In leaving you, I thought I'd remove that self harm from my life, but the connection stayed alive in me because part of me still believed I deserved it.
You are nothing but a big loud metaphor for self hatred.
I don't regret anything I said, and I don't care what you think anymore.