(a version of the truth)

Seven months of phone conversations and message exchanges equaled what seemed like seven years of correspondence before the day we actually met face-to-face.

Seven weeks of wining, dining, dancing, and deepening our bond through physical touch; long, lingering kisses, and watching the sun rise (and set) wrapped in each others arms when we finally found ourselves in the same hemisphere.

He must have told me seven thousand times that I was too good to be true.
I guess I was.

Seven hours ago, I woke up to an empty bed and no trace of evidence that he was ever here… or that he ever existed.

Seven days later, I received his cowardly email inundated with classic, yet overused break-up cliches beginning with “it’s not you, it’s me,” and ending with “the last thing I ever wanted to do was break your heart.” But it was his heart he was really protecting from harm… though I hadn’t given any indication that it was anything less than safe in my care. So, he decided to shatter mine into seven million pieces… you know… just in case.

Seven minutes after reading his message and mopping up seven hundred tears with seven tissues, I decided to respond.

I wrote seven letters…

F - U - C - K - Y - O -U

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