There's something I failed to learn in all my life as a writer; life is a story, but a story with no ending. We love rhyme in our poetry and happy endings to our fairytales because we crave a sense of completeness; but life is a story, or rather a series of stories, that end mid sentence. I let you write a few chapters of my life, and you wrote for me euphoric highs to rescue me from my demons and beautiful, tender, touching moments. You wrote for me guilt and insecurity and worthlessness; you wrote for me confidence and courage and comfort. But your story ended without really ending; you stopped mid sentence, you stopped mid word; a word I can't decipher, because you barely wrote the first letter of it and then you left.

I did not adore you as much as people think I did. I was perfectly capable of speaking harshly of you to my other friends, and I did so on a regular basis. My friends are all accountable to each other, and that has protected me. It is why people are here to catch me now that you have made me fall. I do not like some of them as much as I liked you, and I have complained of them to you. It is important not to do anything silently. 

My comfort is all the things you derided and attempted to wean me off. Other people you don't like, books by people you don't respect, spending time on things you don't believe in, writing things you don't agree with. I could have kept you by cutting them all off, but I will not be dependant on any one thing, or one person. They always told me that part of abuse is isolation, and I thought that meant physically. But you are not the kind of man who would hurt a woman. But there was a kind of emotional, intellectual isolation, from all the things in my life and from myself. You glorified loneliness but could not deal with the burden of my solitude.

I'm okay, really. I know this matters to you in the most selfish way possible; you don't like the guilt of hurting people. You would rather I pretend to be okay because when I fall apart you see how implicit you are in my pain. I hope it affects you; I hope this affects you the way it affects me. I hope you miss me now that I'm gone. This is my selfishness.

My irrationality always ends up making sense; I don't know if this is paranoia creating its own catastrophes or just really good intuition on my part. I was always so afraid of you becoming like this, because I always saw it in you; it was an achievement, to go a day without your indifference or malice or cruelty. It was an achievement, to pass so much time with your care and affection; you are not the kind of person who is all too liberal with that, and I don't know if that makes you cold or if it makes me weak. I do not know what you saw in me to make me worthy of your attention, but apparently that is not the case now. You always treated your time like a precious commodity and that I should be honoured to live in the scraps of it. That's not how friendship works. We are all too busy for everything, but there is something insane in us that makes us wake up at stupid hours and go to bed at even stupider ones for the people who are important to us. I was never important enough for that.

I feel kind of guilty giving you all this friend advice when I am nothing but a terrible friend. I warned you, but you didn't listen. I warned you, but now you are hurt. I suppose I never listened to you either, so maybe we are even.

I've been forcing myself to read over our last fight to desensitise, and it is working. But I can't bear to scroll up beyond then. It is easy to leave behind your anger and neglect, your blatant condescension and pointless cruelty. I can't bring myself to read all of our smiley conversations, not yet. I can't bring myself to relive your kindness, and your affection that seemed all at once overwhelmingly intense and whimsically ethereal. It's too hard to think of your hugs and smiles and winks and whispers and kisses.

I wish I had never met you. I wish I could go back to when I admired you from a distance as something annihilating and untouchable. I wish I had never known what a joy you are as a friend and how cold you can be when you I let you close enough to hurt me. I wish I had not been broken and I wish you had not taken it upon yourself to fix me, and then break me again. I wish a lot of things, you know.

I've just finished reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, a book I know you will never read; but you should, because it would make you less of an asshole, but one of your many endearing traits is that you wear that like a badge of honour. It's the first time I've read one of these death lit books and not wanted to jump of a cliff; I know what it's like to be sick, probably not on that kind of scale, but more than your average cold. Having my demons and being hospitalized because your heart sucks at being a heart is very different, but at the same time exactly the same. This idea that all sick people are self-martyred angels resigned to their fate is ridiculous; the vast majority of us are attention seeking narcissists who shamelessly exploit sympathy, because we can. We don't want to be defined by our illnesses, but it's simply not possible for illness to be ignored. I have a heart condition whether it is acknowledged or not. Whether or not you show me any kind of care or consideration, I still have my demons. It is expected that sick people always attempt to brush aside their pain, but when you're sick pain is a part of who you are, and your friends are supposed to accept you for who you are. What you did to me wasn't nice, but what I was doing to you wasn't nice either; the difference is that I would have stopped it if I had any way to. I don't know if you could say the same.