A letter.

I still know your flat better than the back of my hand. The walls are all creamy white, the stairs leading to where we'd sit and watch crappy action films and had our first kiss on the left, the kitchen where countless glasses of orange juice were consumed on the left as well. The dining nook's on the right, where I had one really nice dinner with you and your mum, although you thought it was awkward and terrible. I'm guessing this is because maybe if she got to know me (which she did) and figured out that I have some substance, she'd figure out that you, doing what you always do, apparently, would hurt me pretty terribly. Which you did. Then there's your old room where everything was happy and cosy and just perfect. You moved rooms when you "felt guilty" last summer. Worried that you were stealing my innocence, which had in fact been stolen from me during my parents' divorce and then the collapse of my mum's second marriage. What always confused me was that you seemed to want to hear about what was making me sad or bringing me down, but you never really wanted to divulge on your side. Sometimes you did, but mostly you didn't. I think I know why that is now.
The room you're in now, I hope the three apple seeds that you successfully planted are growing tall now. Sometimes I see them when I'm waiting to cross the street to get to or from work, and I wonder if you're looking out of your window. I wonder if there's some other girl in there now that's teasing you about the apple seeds, or how silly your pathetic little dog is, or how you're such a paradox. You still have that ocean scene up on the wall opposite the door, and I wonder if you are still putting weights against the door when needed.
Of course I know the lobby, and the stairwell, and especially the distinctive smell that the foyer had.
You hurt me very badly and I hope you never forget what you did. This is like closure for me.