Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I may not have seen you since fifth grade, but don’t think I’ve forgotten the two years of being your “friend.” I haven’t forgotten the torment, the expectations, the fact that you were only truly kind when absolutely no one else was around or it benefited you the most. I haven’t forgotten how you deliberately left me out of things. This may all sound petty, but to a kid with no friends to speak of, it hurt. I still remember that pain. I probably always will.
But, somehow, I should also thank you. If it wasn’t for the way you treated me, I may not have come to love writing in the deep way I do today. Your leaving me out meant I spent my days alone writing. The pain you caused me fueled pain I could use to understand my characters. I can still call on that pain.
I don’t know why you acted like that toward me. I can’t imagine what thrill you got out of tormenting me. So thanks for my writing, but I don’t understand. I’m not sorry you moved away. I’m not sorry I’ve never seen you since.
Don’t think I forget.