We broke up on a Tuesday.
He came to visit. I made coffee. He stood by my window, staring at nothing.
"I don't think this is working anymore," he said.
I stared at him. "You're giving up?"
"I think we're different now. We want different things."
I felt my throat close up. "Or maybe you just don't love me anymore."
He didn't deny it.
That night, after he left, I sat on my bed in silence. I didn't cry. I just stared at the space where he used to sleep.
He didn't text. I didn't call.
The worst part wasn't the breakup—it was how normal the world felt after. Like love was never there to begin with.