One of the strange insistences of some women is that they will tell you whether or not you love them.
I thought I did; she said I didn’t, but we were still dating, which was confusing.
We took a long trip together late in the winter so she could take pictures, and had a great time.
Six weeks later, we broke up, because she’d met someone else: someone she loved, and whose love in return she therefore recognized.
Time felt like a very artificial type of border; yet, the difference between “before” and “after” was absolute.
I remembered her being happy with me, but apparently, it was an illusory and second-rate sort of happiness.
I didn’t take the break up all that well, looking back on it; even though she had never misled me, or been in any way dishonest.
Losing – in every sense of that word – just hurts.