"O. Henry, do you know him?" You asked.
"I know the story, I just didn't know that a certain O. Henry wrote it." I answered.

There was The Gift of the Magi and a thousand other things I thought we loved together. This story and a thousand more like coffee or the dislike for song covers or bavarian doughnuts. We clicked, you know. And for some reason it was all too good to be true. I magnified every single one of them because it just had to make sense. 'We' had to make sense. 'Together' had to make fucking sense.

Now I know it stopped making sense to you a long time ago. We’re no Christmas tale, love. Unlike the couple who chose each other, we made different choices. I finally knocked some sense to myself because guess what, I’m no longer choosing you.