Breakups are hard. I always heard that from my friends who had suffered through them, but I never realised how hard they could be. I always prided myself on being smart with my feelings; I prided myself on never getting hurt. I knew when to leave relationships, I knew how to escape unscathed. I never fought and always chose to run. I never cared and never got hurt until now.

For the first time, I trusted someone with all of me—with my insecurities and my secrets, all of it and all of them. For the first time, I loved someone; nothing mattered more to me than him. If he would have asked me to ruin myself for him, I would have, for I thought he would do the same. Instead, he left me. Alone.

He told me he was afraid I would leave, so I pressed my hand against his heart and swore to never leave. I told him I loved him. I did. I loved him until I hurt myself. All the tears did matter to me because seeing him was enough to make me smile.

He broke up with me.

And that was that.