Music from my iPod was setting my life to a dramatic soundtrack that only I could hear.

Our break-up had been a resounding anti-climax. I wanted to be wept over, bitterly. I wanted to be fought for. Mourned, or regretted just a little. I wanted to feel like I was someone who'd been worth having in the first place.

It stung this new rejection, but it was also a relief to put an end to the ambiguity and incertitude. I had been deceiving myself the day I decided I could master the art of detachment, or maybe the mistake was to allow things to go on in that vein for as long as they had.

I do still love you. I don't love you enough to be able to give you the things we dreamed about and planned.

I want to build you a house with my bare hands and carry you over the threshold. I want too cook for you every evening and bring you tea in bed in the mornings. I want to read with you in front of an open fire, sipping a glass of wine. I want to drive you to the beach and lie next to you in the sun. I may not be a man of means, bit I want to take care of you as best I can.

Music from my iPod was setting my life to a dramatic soundtrack that only I could hear.