"What are you doing, we're not going out anymore." This is how he broke my heart. Those words are still seared into my memory. He stood in the elevator, avoiding the hand I tried to slip into his. The dismissal in his tone, not meeting my confused stare as I stood, heart pounding, ears ringing, as the reality of his words set in. Unable to escape from the steel box for six floors of cold silence. He left without a word, leaving me stunned, body shifting from burning to freezing, trying to process. What had I done? Why was I suddenly not good enough. Last, we cuddled in the hot tub. You tried to coax my hand down. I jerked and shivered. "Prude," you teased. You kept trying to drag my hands under. Even with the other people in the very public tub with us, and her, sitting across from us, watching us with a forced nonchalance. I should have known by constant not quite stare that she was waiting. Waiting for me to leave. Leave I did, cheeks flushed, still believing you cared, that you weren't merely waiting for me to leave so you could coax her hands beneath the steaming water. When you exited the elevator, reaching for her hand again, slipping your own inside, it finally hit. You left me burning and freezing in place, my chest so tight I couldn't breathe. I choked on my breath for hours after, riding the same bus home, my eyes continually drawn in a not quite stare as I watch you cuddle her, like you did me. I wasn't so nonchalant. It took months to remember how you really were. The time you reached under a restaurant table to squeeze my knees painfully together and told me I was being 'too expressive' with my hands. The way you denied me touch and love if I didn't let you coax my hands down. The harsh, not quite teasing as you put down my looks, my mind, my body. You broke my heart in an elevator, abruptly, without reason and I have never been so lucky.