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I did more than just survive.



For an incredibly long five years, I loved him.

I loved him hard and almost blindly. And not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that allowed me to do so blissfully. Blissfully ignorant to the months worth of signs that he plastered around our home disguised as weekends away with the boys.

When he finally decided to leave, he did more than just break me. I shattered.

But I did more than just survive. I picked up every last shard of myself off of the ground and put them back together into some sort of mosaic that reflected just enough light to attract you -- drawing you in to the same exact warmth that had forced him to run away in the first place.

Instead, you tightly embraced me until you were engulfed in my flames. So suddenly and so easily we became fire. What we had was fire. One that warmed the deepest parts of our souls, shining brightly on the darkest parts of ourselves so that for once we could feel as if we were finally seen, proving to us that the cold that surrounded our being was nonexistent. It was the type of fire that was supposed to be contained but that we knew at any second could run wild, flinging sparks every which way, threatening to set the world, our world ablaze. A flame so mesmerizing that we just could not, would not look away.

And for an incredibly fast sixteen months, I loved you.

I will never understand why my heart is so much braver than me because it loves without fear even though we know better.

I'm not sure when or why the wind shifted. But when it did, it blew the smoke straight from our very own flames into our own faces. Stinging our eyes and searing our throats until we just couldn't breathe anymore, choking on the byproducts of our infatuation. And somehow even though we were the fire, we got burned.

Tell me -- how do you pick up the pieces and put yourself back together again when they aren't simply shards this time, they are ashes?

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