Hillary Humphreys

I could still feel his presence in this world, still felt the strings that connected us were being held taut. You never think about those strings until one of them snaps.

I shouldn’t have answered the phone two weeks ago when you called me late at night. I was lying on the couch after a mediocre first date watching “Call The Midwife” in my pajamas when you asked if I wanted to hang out. Yes, of course I want to hang out.

Internet dating hasn’t much served its advertised purpose for me. There have been no lasting romantic relationships, no success stories for me.

A birthday means you survived another year. It doesn’t necessarily mean you thrived for another year.

After growing tired of having to fight for your time, I ended it over text message on the suspicion that your interest had almost entirely disappeared.

Maybe I decided the only way to not have my heart broken again was to ignore the very things that make it beat. That withered thing sits in my chest and pulses only slightly when he tells me I look beautiful. I will it to stop.

We apologize for having felt something, for having reacted. We pay penance with our words because in expressing ourselves, we’ve made the people around us uncomfortable.

I’d rather cry myself to sleep than wake up next to a man who doesn’t think he’s lucky to have drifted into dreamland with me in his arms. I think I deserve more than contented tolerance. I think you do, too.

Shirtless, abs. I guess I’d rather see you with a shirt and a smile and maybe also a puppy or two thrown in there somewhere.

You would break me down and then eagerly pick up the pieces. The floor of our tiny apartment was covered in eggshells. “This is your fault,” you’d insist. “If you’d never cheated then we’d never fight.”

Pumpkin spice lattes have no place in this version of fall. Pair these books with a port or full-bodied red wine.

It shouldn’t have made me stop in my tracks like it did. We broke up three years ago and I was the one who instigated it.