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The End Is As Anticlimactic As The Beginning Was An Inferno

The denouement of an already-over relationship

can be brutal. Recriminations, cruel asides tossed out in the heat of the moment, the apex of the pain really, things said not easily taken back. Or the limbo, the “let’s keep talking” move that keeps a tether connected, a mutual stasis that keeps you from moving on regardless of the ample evidence right in front of you that IT’S FUCKING OVER.

And then you have that last conversation, voices tight and anger thrumming deep in your chest as the truth finally comes out and you say “that’s it” for the 100th time and because of our social media world go and unfriend and suddenly it’s all done.

Numb with relief. No more limbo, no more wondering, no more clinging to the last filament of a thread that still manages to blind you to the cold reality.

Deep breath. Exhale. Over and over. The surging heartbeat, a wash of still-unresolved anger pouring over and you let it because there’s no place for it anymore, there’s no outlet left. You just swallow hard and push on. And try to convince yourself it’s all ok, you wish her luck with her new relationship even as you want more than anything for it to fail, and for her to hurt like you hurt for so long and really you’re ok with this raw truth because fuck man, you’re not so pure, you’ve got a taste for comeuppance whenever it may come.

Besides, this wasn’t even the worst one, not by a long shot. You know your rubber heart, too.

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