She’ll be the type you’ll hurt when you’re young and you’ll live to regret it when you’re older.
I liked that he called me Kid. Nice going, Kid. Good work, Kid. Like where your heads at, Kid. It was a manly combination of the film noir gumshoe and the well-meaning misogynist. I was quickly possessed. Because when a man gives you a nickname, he somehow comes to own you.
I want you to know I would do things differently now. I wouldn’t be so cynical, I wouldn’t close myself off the way I did, I wouldn’t have doubted your intentions, I wouldn’t have refused to believe that maybe I deserved more than all I had ever known.
I feel sorry for you. For her. For what the both of you had the potential to be, but never became. A close-but-not-close-enough, a halfway connection, an almost-love.
I remember every word, every move, everything that you have ever said to me. I remember everything about us, because I knew from the moment that I met you, something was special. Something was right.
He will remember that he was the one who ended it. That he was the one who tore it all apart. That he was the one who cared less. Who loved less. Who thought that that he needed to spread his wings some more. And he will remember the look on your face when he said, ‘it’s over’.
Now I am heartbroken and I regret all the years I invested in this relationship.
Instead of telling you only reasons of why I’m leaving, I would tell you how dazzling and intriguing you really are.
Now you are a stranger to me, and it pains me to think that I can’t do anything about it.
You lose her giving someone else the chance to treat her the way you should have.