It was one of the most beautiful Sunday mornings I could remember, as she stood before me vulnerable, emotionally wracked and helplessly pleading. My eyes are empty as I search for a reason to get her back. She demands to why I don’t want to fight for her. She is beautiful in her short shorts, rumpled tee shirt, and hair that still smells like morning.

More than ever, I want to reach out and hold her. I want to hold on until forgetfulness sets in and everything is right with us again. Alas, my phone rings and I insist that I must answer it. She stares and glares, confused as to why she has pushed me into a corner and I won’t push back.

We were in love just a month ago. Although we had been together for five years, our relationship still had the new car smell. Yet, underneath that smell, there was some old food under the seat. Something that is rotten and forgotten. That’s why I stayed out too late. That’s why she returned my calls an hour later than she should have. I thought she could do better. She knew that she could. For a longtime, we told each other that love was enough until it was all we had. Then we said the words and realized there was an ocean between us. Then I kissed another girl.

Of course, that kiss did not lead to our breaking up. We were already a bunch of frayed nerves, disingenuousness, and anger. No, the kiss confirmed that she really could do better.

A drunken mishap, with a girl that could never measure up to my ex girlfriend, told me everything that I needed to know about myself. My clumsy pawing and feigned regret told me one thing. My dishonesty told me everything else.

I became colder and more distant. I was convinced that she would see what was obvious and do what was necessary. She called me and challenged me. I was evasive…. She said we should end it and I weakly agreed. I would get over the broken heart. So, what the hell is she doing here this morning, Sunday morning, wondering why I won’t fight for us? I am silent. It is better this way. You can do better than me. She leaves in a rush. The girl in my bathroom slinks out, gets dressed, kisses me on my forehead, and leaves.

I disgust myself.

Louis Meadowbank, 30, self-employed

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