It happened so quickly. I sat there, wedged in the too-narrow chair, a drink lodged uselessly in my hand as the colour drained from my world. Then a sharp intake of breath as the harsh, inescapable fact of it hit me: an invisible punch to the chest.
My first impulse was to run, escape – hide. God only knows what I blurted out by way of goodbye as I gathered my things together and stumbled to the door.
Homeward bound, I cycled through all the emotions you’d expect – shock, anger, betrayal, humiliation. Back home I stood under the shower for hours, weeping, trying to wash it all away. But when I wiped the steam from the mirror, it was to find the same desperate reflection staring back.
Why didn’t I see it coming? In retrospect, it’s so clear. The warning signs were there. But I was so convinced that everything would be fine – so wanted everything to be fine – that I ignored them.
God. I feel so stupid.
Alone in my flat, I desperately scan our conversations for the thing, the things – the idiotic, pointless things I must have said to make this happen. And I’m tormented by an unending tickertape stream of things that remain unsaid: the doubts unaddressed, the instincts stamped down, the reassurances that could have been made, but weren’t. And it’s too late. Too late to say anything. Too late to save it.
I so desperately want to have hope, but how can anything be salvaged from this? The roots of what we – of what I once had are so, so damaged.
This is the worst fucking haircut I’ve ever had.
Fucking brilliant Christina!! ..loved this. Now I want pics please! I don’t believe you ..
Hear you’re coming for dinner on Sunday?? Say you are!?
Sent from my iPhone
It’ll take half as long to recover from as the length of the previous haircut
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