It’s not empty. It’s heavy. It sits on my chest at 2 a.m. wearing your old hoodie. I hate that you don’t have to be here to be everywhere.
That cracked bench near the bus stop. The 24-hour diner with bad coffee. Now I can’t walk past them without my chest tightening. You ruined geography.
Not like you were calling me—like you were coming home. No one has ever said my name like that before. No one will again. And that’s your fault. 10 reasons why i hate you
Not with anger—with patience. Like you’d already forgiven me before I even said sorry. I hate that I learned how to be better because of you, and now I have to be better without you.
You helped strangers change tires. You apologized to furniture when you bumped into it. You once drove forty minutes to return a wallet. I hate that you made it impossible for me to settle for someone just “nice enough.” It’s not empty
I never did. I hate that I can’t hate you. I hate that after everything—the silence, the distance, the pretending to be fine—if you showed up at my door right now, I’d still let you in. And you probably know it.
It’s not loud or polite. It’s the kind of laugh that starts as a snort and ends as a wheeze. I hate that I can still hear it in crowded rooms where you’re not standing. wearing your old hoodie
So yes. Ten reasons why I hate you. But every single one is just another way of saying: I still love you. And I hate that most of all. Would you like a more lighthearted, comedic version (e.g., “You breathe too loud” and “You finish my snacks”)? Just let me know.