I am really very tired of pretending to be happy.
Write me a love letter.
And maybe, she’d name her baby August, because that was the day she finally got away.
She supposed if she was beautiful, life would be much simpler.
You ask too much.
It was more than sad that when they ended it, she knew him better than the back of her hand… Inside and out, what made him tick had been imprinted on the back of her eyelids and in that shallow space she once thought her heart lived.
He got a vague impression of her, more like a weak idea… A tea bag that had been used one too many times and tasted only of hot water, a lost penny deep in the couch.
Because once again, she walked away and no one knew her.
And once again, he had ended up alone.
They fell in love and fought and screamed and stopped caring in that deep well of apathy that stems from separation. Nobody said that she got her timing wrong. Nobody said that he wasn’t lost enough.
Instead, she spit him out and spent her late nights with bruised arms and a still beating heart.
They didn’t know how to end the story happily.