And in the end it's just sad, isn't it.
And in the end it doesn't matter what we think, or what we say, or what we write, or the arguments we present in defense of illogic and emotion, or my reaction to your reaction to something that has, really, little to do with either of us, in the end.
It's not the end yet.
I've cried over things smaller than this. I've cried over you, long after you were done crying over me. I didn't cry for him, but for days I've been imagining deathbeds, the pale faces of my friends. I've been remembering things that never happened, and they're more vivid than last month, last semester. More real than the details that got me through that year. I wonder sometimes why I stayed. And I look deeper, then, and read and reread and recall, and I'm amazed I had the strength to leave.
He did a different kind of leaving. An escape on a larger scale. And maybe the juxtaposition is meaningless, a coincidence bound by probability to happen one of these days, but I'm thinking now and I didn't think then and I can't pretend to know what he was thinking when he gave in or gave up or let go and only on this scale does it become reprehensible, shocking, tragic, a shame. Everywhere else it's just moving on. In the end it's just sad.
I don't care what you're thinking anymore.