It would make sense that you turned out that way. You never really did make sense to anyone, let alone yourself. To think that I dated you when you really didn’t care kind of saddens me. I, usually, never let myself slip that far down into the cesspit that you once fashioned for me. So, when I did it, what was I thinking? I’m sure you know, kid - you were there when it all started to go downhill, kicking out from under me the supports of some false love you had that somehow kept me elevated.

I’m sitting here, looking at your picture and wondering how it truly came to be. Was it your interests? You are into quite a bit of gore, vore, violence, blood, etc., so much so that it’s almost uncanny you haven’t become a murderer, but that’s being judgmentally far from the truth, isn’t it? You’re complacently distant - a long-worn and severely cracked shell that is rather hollow. No, there is no amorphousness - specks of dust gather inside; maybe a teardrop or two from a long-gone human being.

And, even now, I’m watching you post in the chat room, making jokes about how you’re alone, but they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know how you hurt, they don’t see the pain is real, but I digress; to what extent can you feel pain, if any? You contemplate suicide and let it ring out for the world to see because you’re an attention-seeker. A shame that I used to give you that attention, that I thought you were actually worth something; that I thought you really did care at one point. Seriously, why would you tell me what you did if you felt otherwise? To gain my attention? To keep me around? To feel like you belonged somewhere?

I regret knowing your real name. I regret knowing what I know about you. I regret you showing me the real you, because there is no real you, anymore. 13 years of hiding behind the shell - so constant and filled with hatred and anger. You are the shell. You can’t accept what happened, and it kills you.

And, as I write this, I start to feel my hatred for you leave. You were, truly, the only one I despised out of a multitude of people who were almost exactly like you. Maybe, it was because I loved you once. Maybe, it was because I cared for you. I can actually stomach being around you now.

But, it brings me here to ask this question - this query that you’ll never read. Every time we meet, it’s like you regret seeing me.

Do you still feel guilty for doing what you did to me?

I guess we’ll never know.