I asked you what you wanted and you said you didn't want anything. And I told you I wasn't planning on giving you anything; I was planning on giving you something.

When someone breaks up with you, their beauty-- which you took such satisfaction in-- suddenly becomes unfair.

Moments into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days. Days into years. Years into possibility. This will linger.

I wake up feverish, sore, uncomfortable. Is it sickness or is it heartbreak? I can't tell. The thermometer says I'm normal, but I'm clearly not.

It would be too easy to say that I feel invisible. Instead, I feel painfully visible, and entirely ignored.

She stays in the same spot, anchored by the profound, desperate loneliness of a bad relationship.

When first love ends, most people eventually know there will be more to come. They are not through with love. Love is not through with them. It will never be the same as the first, but it will be better in different ways.