I broke up with him.
Never in a million years would I have thought that I'd do it. I love him. I let myself dream about - with - him.
And I ended it.
I had good reasons.
But it hurts. God, it hurts.
I've never been the type of girl who really cries much. Even after my dad died I didn't cry very much. Not like I have for the past two weeks. For the first week it was every day. At random. Tears and gut wrenching sobs. My dog got scared and hid in his crate. The cat would just sit on me and purr. It's a little better now, I'm able to quash the tearing, take a few deep breaths and go about my day.
I've tried to distract myself. Working twelve hour shifts helps. And it's busy, so there's not much time to think about how I don't have someone to share "I love you" texts with anymore. I have the most amazing friends in the world who have worked to distract me and give me people and places to hang with. Brand new apartment with no memories of him hiding around random corners. And I gave back everything he ever gave me - down to the dried roses and little notes. Deleted all pictures, erased all text messages. The only reason I didn't delete his number was so I could set calls straight to voicemail and avoid hearing his voice.
Not that he left messages the two times he called. Which is just further confirmation regarding the rightness of my decision.
Sigh.
And I have to figure out what I'm doing for a job in four weeks.
I don't want to. I don't care.
I have professional burnout on top of a shattered heart and it's not very conducive to having ambition of any sort.
Sigh and ugh.
