And there I was, months ago, writing about how happy you were. Don’t get me wrong, I wish you no harm. It just stings, believing that it was just “me”. I see now, the same patterns. You say glass pieces, I say eggshells. Tomato, tomato. Potato, potato.

I feel sorry for you, for you’re nothing more than the latest victim. The next heart to be broken. I see through your writing, that your entire life has been sacrificed. Your words don’t speak of anything other than him or the things you do for him, as has been the case for months.

But deep down, a tiny part of me is satisfied.

I was right.