The amount of years that has passed since you left me can now be counted with two hands.
Yet, every day that passes still feels like an open wound.
I catch myself thinking of you more than I should.
I wonder how you are doing.
Do you wonder the same about me?
I have learned how to be a better person.
To have bigger goals in life.
To pick up productive hobbies.
To be kinder.
All in hopes that if you return to me someday, you will be proud of the person I have become,
instead of being ashamed of me like you were all those years back.
Remember how you hid me from everyone else?
I never let on, but that hurt like a thousand knives piercing through every inch of my skin.
Strangely enough, I don’t resent you.
Not one bit.
I love you.
As if it wasn’t obvious enough already.
Edit: I’m fine, everyone. This is purely fiction, combined with a little bit of someone else’s truth.