Dear Norm,

Dear Norm,

I remember it now. That conversation that pushed me over the edge. For the last four years I've successfully blocked it out of my memory, but thanks to Facebook magically saving messages from years ago, I realized now why I have so much anger towards you.

Here I am, your best friend, the girl who broke up with her boyfriend to be with you. The girl that I thought you wanted. There you are, the stupid boy that broke my heart. For years I've never been able to pinpoint the exact moment where my heart just kinda...shattered, but now I have.

It was January 7th. You sent me a message talking about how depressed you are because Hannah (i knew there was a reason i fucking hated her) broke your little heart. You were venting to me, crying to me, begging me for advice and asking me what was wrong with you. After all, I was just the best friend madly in love with you.

I told you to get over it. That she wasn't worth it, wasn't worth you. You told me how you were crying your eyes out, how you were an emotional baby. And I just told you to let it go. Until you told me that you "really liked her" and that you were "hoping for a magical fairytale ending" and that it shouldn't surprise you because "the nice guy never wins".

For years I blocked out this conversation, and now I know why. While you were bitching and moaning over someone else, someone who clearly wasn't worth your effort, I was sitting there, talking to you while my heart was crushing and you didn't even know. God, I mean, what the fuck? I just let you use me as your personal fucking therapist. And instead of saying to you that a magical fairytale is possible, just without her, I pushed through my own tears and told you to go for it. That nice guys win and you were going to win her. And to hang in there, because if you liked her that much, it would work out. The worst part was that two days later we acted as if it didn't happen, as if you didn't have a major breakdown and I didn't loose my heart. I think maybe all that pretending made me forget.

Now, though, I remember.

I've always been your emotional punching bag. Whenever you'd have a problem, you'd unload it on me and expect me to make it better. Well, honey, I hate to break it to you, but I can't always make it better. I can't always put on my reassuring smile and make everything okay. I can't give you my everything anymore because in the end I'm left with nothing except a fake smile and a few friends that say "I told you so."

I still hate you.
-B.