I'm not really sure what you're doing. I don't know why you're suddenly talking to me when we practically haven't had any communication since... I don't know because I stopped caring after that life-changing ride back home seven months ago. I don't know why it's suddenly so urgent for us to see each other again... no, why it's suddenly so urgent for you to see me again, because I don't need or want to see you.

I don't know why you're telling me things like that. Your choice of words... they annoy me. They might have been amusing before, but they just sound lame now. It's just a shame that you're still able to stir some (a very little amount, really) emotion in me.

I hate the fact that you told me that you would wait, even if I bluntly told you that there was nothing that could change my mind. I hate the fact that you still think you matter to me enough to put me in a position where I would do what you ask me to, even if I had told you that while you may not have changed, I did. Most of all I hate the fact that I still felt a piercing feeling in my chest when you told me that you miss me and all I answered was "Haha."

But by now the one thing that makes me happy is that I know that I've stopped caring. About you, about us. You asked me to be there for you a dozen times, and I told you that I won't a dozen times as well. You told me that you would wait, and I told you that you would be waiting for nothing. You told me that you miss me, and I told you "Haha"; there wasn't even a smiley.

So go ahead, do what you want to do and say what you want to say. And while you're at it, rip my heart out from its veins with your sweet words, and with your selfishness watch it bleed, defiled by the grime of your artful hands, with insensitive pleasure and egotistic glee until its last beat. Cause you know what?

It's all the same to me.