My hatred toward what he has done to us finally solidified when she told me that she wasn’t sure. I had come close to breaking up before, but this time I snapped. A week from now I might feel sorry for injecting so much malice and spite into my words, but right now, I don’t. For a few seconds I can feel calm, but I quickly remember what I lost and why I lost it. I remember who started its destruction and who finally gave her peace. As many times as I may try to say to myself that it was inevitable, and someone would have filled his role anyway, I still abhor him.
In a way, I hate what she did to me too, but I’ll get over her. I won’t ever get over him.
As we walked on rocky ground, it flashed in my mind for a second that I should stay with her so that the bastard never got what he wanted. I shunted it from my mind because that’s no way to run a relationship.
I wish her the best and I wish him the worst. Her ostracism is so I never hear the details about those two desires conflicting, and so that I have no regrets, because I can’t ever see myself stop giving less than three.