In the movies, the heart always breaks quickly. One sentence, a look into their eyes, and with a soft sob we know; it's over. My heart didn't break in one quick conversation, but crack, ever so slightly, every single time I kissed you. I didn't notice at first. Thought that each ache meant that every stolen kiss and hidden glance was true loves first. That if I made you laugh enough, if I made you wake up to my eyelashes brushing yours enough, if I kissed you enough, that I would be right. But I think I always knew. I always knew from the second I kissed you, the moment that first crack appeared, that I was a set of ready lips and fiery hair and an innocence that excited you. I was a passing glance before you deemed it time to look away. And when my heart broke it wasn't our last conversation, our last kiss, or last embrace. I didn't look into your eyes, glancing at your feet instead as I felt my heart shatter, blood rush to my mouth and it was only then that I accepted we weren't over because we never actually were.
I spent months thinking about you. I changed your name in my phone so that each time you texted (which was too often and yet not enough), was another grind against my pounded down to dust heart. I couldn't listen to that song, you know the one, not because we hadn't talked for weeks, not because that was our song, not because we sang it together that one time driving so fast I forgot we were still grounded. Not because I saw that you went back to her so easily. But because every, single, thing reminded me of you and my innate inability to completely purge you from my body.
Months later, that song came on the radio and I didn't switch it off. I didn't cry, I didn't ache. I like to think of that moment as the moment I knew, I was finally going to be okay.