twenty-five

If I knew last year where I would end up this year, I wouldn’t change anything.

I tell you this on my birthday after you make me breakfast, when it is absolutely true, before it all falls apart.

You are the one who believes in judging action over intention, and this time, I can’t help but feel that you’re right.

In my head, we are on a Cinderella timeline, and the only way I can possibly forgive you is before midnight. I am waiting for you to pull out some magic to save this day, to save us.

I spend the hours I wait for you stuffing my broken heart with inflated expectations. A temporary fix, just for today, just because I know that if I don’t, then I have to start coping with the fact that it is already over.

It is my fault as much as yours. I guess I spent the last six months slowly hammering your pedestal back together, while you spent it tiptoeing around, refusing to fall and waiting for the end.

Deflated, my heart feels hard and heavy, causing a dull throbbing in my chest that I can’t ignore.

I don’t know where to go from here.

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