He broke my heart. Or perhaps I broke my own. I’m not sure, I can’t quite decide. It’s not like I went into it blind folded, or maybe I did, maybe I chose not to believe the things he said. He told me what he had done to other girls, about how he made them fall in love only to make them fall apart, he told me he never stays around for long, he told me my feelings had no place in his life, you know? Like, he made sure I was aware, well aware that we wouldn’t skip along happily into the sunset at the end of the story. Instead it was more like “and in the end you’ll be crying on your bedroom floor calling my phone and I’ll let it ring while it sits on my bedside table as my lips are pressed against a girl who isn’t you” kind of thing, and god knows that’s exactly what happened. I spent months crying for him, screaming for him, my heart yearning for him every single second of every single day. But I mean, how mad can you really be at someone for being exactly who they told you they were? I knew how it would end and yet I read the book anyway, went along with the storylines as if the moments of happiness were supposed to last despite already knowing they wouldn’t but pretending they would for a good few chapters.
— Excerpt of a book I’ll never write