The Migratory Patterns of the Hikey German Family

Once upon a time there was this girl, I wouldn't really call us friends but I also wouldn't call us not. She was just a person who existed in the line of my world. She sat next to me one day and looked over my shoulder and the poetry I was writing and asked if the boy I still wrote about had my heart. I calmly answered no. She nodded slowly and asked if I regretted any of it. I knew the answer she wanted, wanted me to say yes because when something ends you're supposed to wish it never took place. So I gave her the lie she wanted.
Later after she had walked away from my desk I leaned back and though. I didn't regret that boy. I could never hate something that made me happy even after it fell apart. This wasn't the first time I'd been asked nor was it the last.
She came back later, after she lost the one she had loved, or maybe loved, and she sat next to me and I asked it she regretted it. Disgust flashed across her face and said how dare I ask that, how dare I ask if she could hate someone she loved. I smiled back at her and said exactly. I turned and went back to my school work.