I hope you’re reading this.
You say that you don’t hate me, but your actions say otherwise.
When two of my friends died (and you knew them both, mind you), there was no call from you.
Not a single word.
That really, really hurt me.
Today, it hurts me still, just to think about.
You say you don’t hate me, and maybe you don’t.
Maybe it’s something worse.
Maybe you don’t care about me.
Not caring is worse than hate.
I could die right now, and you wouldn’t bat an eye.
You probably won’t even go to my wake or funeral.
I wish you hated me, instead.