I need to write more, so here goes. Let's call this one a practice in reality-based fiction:
And just like that, I'm pretty sure it's over, or ending much sooner rather than later. He'll wait until after New Year's, but not too much longer. We will spend Valentine's Day apart. I will be living in my parents' basement cursing my stupid heart for being so open and breakable. I already am.
He will want to stay friends but I will need time. Then one day I'll run into him at some bar with a new brunette girl. It will hurt so much that I'll feel like my chest is splitting into a million pieces, but that only means it will heal more solidly - more scar tissue to hold it together.
These scars will be different from the others; the two long, jagged fault-lines in my heart. One from my ex-husband, and one from the man who was supposed to be my second, and last, husband.
These million tiny scars will bind together the two large ones to make a whole scar-tissue heart, and be the final proof that I am a 100% failure at love.
I should run like hell right now, but I probably won't. Hope is my worst enemy.
Gifting myself an extra set of hands
1 hour ago