I figured you stopped calling me by now, but here we are. 3 missed calls in a single day. Why can't you just leave me alone? People always told me to beware of you, I knew I should have listened. 

Regret is the only thing I can feel as I delete all of your ridiculous voice messages. I don't need to listen to them to know that all you're doing is rambling on and on about how sorry you are that you did that to me, how you're a changed person and how much better you're doing now.

My inbox is empty now. I've blocked you once before, twice before. I have no idea how you're getting all my new phone numbers, but I know now it's futile to try and get rid of you.

Every piece of me wants to call you and yell up a storm for nearly an hour, listing every little and big thing I hate about you, but silence is better revenge than any crude insult I could possibly come up with. 

I can already imagine you sitting there on your gray, old couch, just waiting for me to care about you again. Waiting for me to pick up my phone and tell you how much I appreciate you changing yourself for the better, how I think we can really make this work. But if you knew me at all, you'd know that I would never resort to that. 

You were fake from the start, playing games with my mind as some sick form of entertainment. If I had known then what I know now, I would have avoided crossing paths with you on a crowded sidewalk.

My phone rings again. It's you, of course. Who else would it be? The only other person who would call me with such frequency is my mother, and you know what happened to her. You know everything about everyone that's ever been in my life for even a single second.

The things I told you. I can never take them back. All my secrets I felt I couldn't even tell my own mother, I told you. And you used them. Used them to ruin me just like you probably have countless times before.

Someone is knocking on my door now. I stand up from my couch, and go to answer it. My heart beats. No one ever knocks on my door, no one except my landlord, and he barely does. I open the door, but something isn't right. 

I look at your sweater. The one you always wore, even if you were hot. I look at your jeans. The faded blue ones that your father wore in 1988. The ones you always bragged about being truly vintage. And those shoes. Those damn shoes. The sneakers that you swear match with every outfit.  Your smile is awkward at first. Then, it turns dull. Your eyes are wild, but your face is emotionless. I want to close the door, but something stops me. 

Your hand. Way larger than mine. Everything about you is larger than me. When we were together, I thought this to be a good thing. You could protect me. But now there's no one to protect me but myself, and I just don't think I can. 

You push the door back open, knocking me to the ground, and I know exactly where this is going.