You realized you were special, right? I liked you, at least. That's why you drifted away, isn't it? Being yourself, I suppose that is a given, still, you are a jerk.
The days pass and I coast along, indifferent, well, unfeeling, at least. I still feel, if only selectively more attuned to the many shades of gloom. If I were as naive as I was then, I'd claim that not a day passes without you intruding my thoughts. Of late, you are a passing thought, brief, but still potent. You may have lost your edge or I am probably better tempered, but you still leave impressions. I could say more but the honesty of the romanticism is already spread too thin.
When things turn bad, I think about you so I don't have to think about them. I'm an escapist like you. I just do it differently.
In strange ways, you've become my excuse, and in many permutations, a sorry one.