I used to think
heartbreak came with violins and torrential rain. But no—it's in the awkward
silence when he doesn’t text back and the tight smile when he says, “I’ve just
been busy.” Every breath felt like breathing in rare, thin air, wondering
if he even wanted to be here. How much sad did he think I had in me? Enough to
stick around for his half-love? Nah. I’m tragic, sure, but I draw the line at
self-implosion. So, I blocked his number, bought overpriced ice cream, and
inhaled it like revenge. And guess what? Breathing’s easier already.
The thing is, I wanted it
to hurt more. Like, if you’re gonna break my heart, at least make it
Oscar-worthy. But nope. No grand finale, no tear-soaked monologue—just me,
realizing I cared more about his ‘busy schedule’ than he ever did about my
favorite ice cream flavor. (It’s salted caramel, by the way. Superior choice.)
So, here I am, alive, un-imploded, and maybe—just maybe—better off. Because if
love feels like gasping for air, maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s just waiting
for someone who never shows up. And honestly? I’ve got better things to do.
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