Two weeks ago, he told me he met with her, that they were talking again.

A week ago, we tentatively parted ways, and I was determined; “Never again.” Because this is twice in the time that I’ve loved him, and two years I’ve spent at his side, and twice I’ve seen him destroyed by her. (He’s my friend, as well. More than that, so much more, but that, too.)

This week, I made a conscious effort to move on. He would always be a part of me, but I had to move on.

How does he know? I was good. I was okay. I was ready to move on.

Last night he called, just down the street from me, and I invited him over.

It might have been the caffeine, or the rumble of that old mustang rolling up my driveway, but my heart was racing.

“You’re so scruffy” was the first thing out of my mouth to him.

He told me how he felt like the universe was screaming at him not to be with her. To which my response was “As it should.” We talked about everything. Except her, and this. He didn’t want to talk about the heavy things. I just wanted to make him smile. So on the edge of my bed while I nervously folded clothes to quell my caffeine-sudden-Him-jitters, we talked.

And before the end of the night he called me “Love.” He kissed the top of my head more than once. He embraced me like he didn’t want to go home. “Why is life so hard?” He asked. And when I stepped up to kiss him, he kissed me back like he meant it. And he took my breath away and I couldn’t stand on my tiptoes long enough to kiss him as long as I wanted (which would be forever).

Why is life so hard, though?

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