It’s not empty. It’s heavy. It sits on my chest at 2 a.m. wearing your old hoodie. I hate that you don’t have to be here to be everywhere.
You helped strangers change tires. You apologized to furniture when you bumped into it. You once drove forty minutes to return a wallet. I hate that you made it impossible for me to settle for someone just “nice enough.”
Not with anger—with patience. Like you’d already forgiven me before I even said sorry. I hate that I learned how to be better because of you, and now I have to be better without you. 10 reasons why i hate you
They say hate is a strong word. I agree. It’s also the wrong word—but it’s the only one loud enough to drown out the sound of missing you. So here it is. Ten reasons why I hate you. Not because I actually do, but because loving you broke the dictionary.
Falling asleep on a phone call. Being quiet without it being awkward. Letting someone see me cry without explaining why. I hate that I now walk through the world knowing exactly what I’m missing. It’s not empty
So yes. Ten reasons why I hate you. But every single one is just another way of saying: I still love you. And I hate that most of all. Would you like a more lighthearted, comedic version (e.g., “You breathe too loud” and “You finish my snacks”)? Just let me know.
It’s not loud or polite. It’s the kind of laugh that starts as a snort and ends as a wheeze. I hate that I can still hear it in crowded rooms where you’re not standing. wearing your old hoodie
I never did. I hate that I can’t hate you. I hate that after everything—the silence, the distance, the pretending to be fine—if you showed up at my door right now, I’d still let you in. And you probably know it.