Two words. Three vowels. Four consonants. Seven letters. It can either cut you open to the core and leave you in ungodly pain, or it can free your soul and lift a tremendous weight off your shoulders: It's over. But if you have the courage to say go...
I watched everything fall apart. I knew the end was coming. But I felt powerless to stop it from happening. I had no idea what to do to fix it. It's over.
Maybe our being together was never supposed to happen...
But he's been my rock for so long. The man I love. My best friend. My confidant. Now, it's all gone.
We did have a good time together, didn't we? He believed in me.
We went through everything together. He was always there for me. And now he's not.
Maybe it just got away from us somehow, and we lost our way...
But now we're over. No more. "Us" is over, done with, and dead.
The hardest part is also losing him as a friend. There's nothing left. Now to him, it's like I don't even exist.
Why can't I just delete him off the face of this earth?
What purgatory can ex-boyfriends be condemned to to think about what they did?
Tiptoeing around him at work, pretending like nothing even happened between us.
To him, moving on seems so easy. Did I mean anything to him? Or was all that stuff he said just...
I try to keep it professional. For everyone's sake. Especially my own. Especially his. Maybe he still has feelings too and is just as miserable...
Inside I'm aching, trying to hold it together. And I hate that he knows that.
He pisses me off. How dare he. He doesn't even care.
I knew it was coming but I still wasn't prepared when it came. I thought I could avoid it forever. But it caught me completely off guard and knocked the wind out of me.
And yet here I am. Running myself insane trying to cope with the death of what used to be "us."
Him and his new girlfriend don't seem to be suffering at all. They seem to be doing just fine.
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She ran her fingers through her long hair, taking a seat at the grand vanity in her softly lit, bewilderingly luxurious and arabesque designed lavish four-room suite, alone. Picking up an old photo of her and him still together, like some kind of Masochist punishing herself with more pain.
The way her heart longed for him told her that maybe the reason she couldn't part with this memory is because she wasn't ready to accept that it was actually over. She hated the way one glance still stirred butterflies and triggered poignant old memories she was now desperately trying to cut off and escape from.
What began as a careful application of lipstick, became a berating examination of her reflection, guilt pummeling her mind with hypotheticals of what she could have done or should have done or would have done if she and Christian had the chance to do it all over.
