Ridiculous.

No, it is, it is actually ridiculous.

I haven't thought about him in months, haven't thought about him like that in years (...well, other than the odd hiccup, but I'm only human)

It is his birthday today. I don't even know how old he is.

I don't know if I care. I don't know if I should care.

I loved him - thought I loved him (did I ever anything-else him?) - for years. Lived with him for years. Wanted him, desperately, for years.

He never wanted me.

Loving someone who doesn't love you - never will - is self-destruction. It's the self harm nobody warns you of, that nobody tells you. It is agony.

He is the reason that I couldn't listen to music for years, the reason that I wanted to cry when it rained, the reason that I couldn't look at anyone else.

They were looking at me. I don't think they looked at me since - would I have noticed? I don't think I want any of them to have looked at me... None of them were him, that was their only sin.

I haven't thought of him in months, and I had forgotten that he existed, that I had been at his mercy for so long.

He ages today. I don't recall him wishing me a happy birthday (and I would recall it, despite myself)

I will still agonise whether to wish him well or not.

Utterly ridiculous.