I was going to write you a long letter. I deleted it four times. So here's the short version:

Not the kind of hate that burns. The kind that sits quietly in the chest, in the exact spot where I love youI hate you used to live.

funny how it's the same three words, just heavier.

I hate that you knew. I hate that you did it anyway. I hate that my favorite song is ruined, that your name still autocompletes, that I check if you've seen this.

And I hate — most of all — that some stubborn, stupid part of me doesn't hate you at all.

That's the part I'm burying with this page.