Why We Broke Up

Matt and Violet were never the sort of people expected to get together. But in the end, the funny part was... they didn't quite know where they went wrong.

Why We Broke Up is a love story told backwards... to find where they went wrong, and where exactly they went right.

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7. January 14th, 2013

 

He doesn’t love me anymore.

That knowledge is a thousand car crashes, a million hurricanes, and a great painting sat on a wall, lost and covered in dust, because I bury it inside me as I say goodbye.

You broke up with him, I remind myself. You told him to get out. You can’t expect people to wait months just in case you forgive them. You can’t expect them to carry you around in their heart like that. And they shouldn’t. It’s not healthy to do that.

So I breathe. Maybe it’s time to let him go. What happened, happened, and what we had was good, but nothing good lasts forever, and maybe that’s just as well, because if it did we may not love it so. It might settle like dust on our lives that we need to scrape underneath, and be forgotten forever.

But it’s so hard to say goodbye to him, and know this might be the last time, because he’s going to travel the world and I’m going to London to follow my dreams and who would have thought we’d end up here?

“Bye,” I choke out, trying to seem composed, trying to smile.

“Goodbye.” And it’s much easier for him, I can tell, and how does that work, because he’s the one who didn’t care about me enough to be monogamous. Why do I feel like the bad guy? And there are still so many questions, but I know that if I speak I’ll just ask: “Why don’t you love me anymore?” and the answer will hurt more than I can bear.

So instead of doing the thousand things I want to do: to kiss him, to put my arm around his neck, to ask if this has to be the last time we see each other, to ask where we went wrong: I just turn and walk away.

As I head down the road, I take one last glance over my shoulder and almost turn to go running.

But he’s gone.

And it’s for the best, really.

 

FIN.

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