Science of hate

"I hate you.

And you don't even know me.

But you should have.

And you know it.

I hope you burn in hell so your bones rot and crumble to dust like all the feelings and emotions you ever had for me.

You don't know anything about me.

And now you never will.

You don't know what my favorite book is or why I love certain characters. You dont know which sweater I wear when I am sad and what song wants to make me dance in the streets at 3am.

But you should have.

It should have been your sweater.

You should have danced in the street with me.

You should have done something.

Anything.

But Mr. Perfect seems to be too perfect for his own good.

So don't you dare ever visit my grave or shed a single tear thinking about me, if you haven’t even done so while I was alive!"

That was all.

That's how her letter ended.

No ending, no goodbye, just abruptly. Like a flame suddenly extinguished by heavy rain no one saw coming.

Just like her. I missed her, and I felt bad because I knew I shouldn't. I thought of her, and it felt like thorns digging deeper in my heart and my brain; consuming every single atom of my body until the big bang was a sheer nothing compared to my heart bursting all over again.

I didn’t deserve an ending.

I didn’t deserve goodbye.

I was hardly worth the scruffy paper in my hands.