LETTER SEVEN

I was thinking abut you today. Your words are so manipulative. Part of me is afraid to ask you how much truth there is behind the compliments and flattery and endearments that pour from your charming lips. 

I used to think you were selfless, noble. I used to think that you cared for me, you wanted to know how I was, what I was doing, where I planned to go next. But then I realised. You didn't care, you didn't want to know. You only wanted for me to ask you. You wanted it to be about you and your problems and your life. And like the stupid person I was and still am, I mistook that for your concern in me. How you do it, I don't even know. 

I say I still am stupid because I know that if you were to come up to me right now and say the same sweet things as you do every time, I would fall for it again and you would once again get what you've always wanted: to talk about you. 

I miss you but I never even had you.

But enough about me, how are you? What are you doing? Where do you plan to go next?