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The flowers died on Monday.
She threw them away on Tuesday.
Wednesday, I left. For good.
It wasn’t like we’d fallen out of love. If anything, we’d fallen more in love, so much more I smothered under the weight of her emotions.
Or had the streams of her feelings turned to hate when I wasn’t looking?
I don’t know. Things would have been easier had I known.
It’s easy to pretend to hate, but so much harder to walk out the door and never look back.
Thursday, I moved to California, half a world away from dead flowers in a dumpster.
On Friday, alone in an empty apartment, I cried.
Saturday, I left the apartment and never looked back.