You have to start thinking she’s average.
I don’t love you anymore because I’m not important to you and you give me nothing. Maybe saying that makes me a selfish person but I no longer care.
None of the words are as good as yours.
Your 30-something is probably going through way more than they will ever tell you about, for a number of reasons.
Like dipping your heart in liquid nitrogen, the paralyzing chill of an unsaid name that used to make you feel warm.
I run my thumb lightly under her shirt, over her hipbone the way she likes it. It’s an odd thing to like but I don’t ask questions. It’s the sharp intake of breath that makes me keep going, even though she gives me a Look, eyebrow angled up, to remind me we’re in a bar.
I’m trying to come up with normal things to text you.
Someone will always look better and someone is always in more pain.
The death of something is testament to the fact that it was there in the first place.
After you’ve started transitioning into an actual adult with bills and a bedtime and responsibilities, how does it still make sense to treat relationships like a game of musical chairs?