Was searching through old emails looking for a particular invoice. Instead, I found an old thread, conversations made up of short clipped sentences strung together into paragraphs, like amateur poetry. Back and forth, teetering on the edge of confessions of heartache and reeking of heartbreak.
We were young. We didn't know what we were doing. What we should do, what to do. Don't want to hurt each other while trying not to get hurt.
She saw through my armor and I called her out on her baggage.
Truth in words and truth can be cruel when you assume the worst in the intention. I didn't understand. Couldn't have understood.
Maybe I could have helped her if I had treated her as a friend instead of someone who had the power to break my heart.
Maybe then she could have found something she needed to live on for.
Maybe.
But now all that lives on are just her words, strung together like amateur poetry.