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I don't know what to feel.

Now, that first sentence was easy to write. The rest wouldn't be. There's a hole in my heart. Cliche, it is. Fine. Cliches would describe this well. But they wouldn't be enough. Because there are specifics. Specifics like you driving your motorcycle in the middle of the night to that gas station just to talk. Now that's not cliche, but that's formulaic, but formulas makes it easier to deconstruct things. Things like a great friendship going on for a few months then self-destructing. Almost like a summer love. But it wasn't. Because there were actual emotions involved. This is real life. It wasn't as easy to let go. Things don't have closure. You would never tell me what happened. Nor would I ask why.

But I dreamed of you last night. I don't know where you are right now or what you are doing. We haven't talked in, exaggeratedly, eons. (Another cliche.) But I dreamed of you. That's the closest to reality that I can get to you. I didn't will it but my subconscious found a way to let you in. I don't know what to feel.

I think I feel hurt and betrayed. I wish I could tell you this. You have debunked not only the general view of things but also my personal belief of goodness in humankind. You were an asshole, in the simplest of terms. Cliched and formulaic, both. But you are not stereotypical. I wanted to prove this but you made it difficult with your actions. So I guess you were, after all, cliched, formulaic, stereotypical. Asshole.