Broken hearts and painted faces

He would have loved me. That's not vanity, it's fact, pure and simple. I don't know what quality he saw in me, but it was there, for him. He revelled in it, shared it, took joy from it. I did, too, at first. At first. My smiles in the beginning were genuine, unforced, and hard to shake from my face. People noticed, commented, were happy for me.

But smiles fade. Mine did. His didn't. His grew, while mine turned from smile to wince. The attention that was once so craved, so wished for, soon became a hassle, an annoyance. Almost like a small puppy that at first is so adorable, soon becomes tiresome in it's constant presence. I continued in the pretence, tried to convince myself that it was natural to feel this way, a new person threatening to take your independence, to take part of you for themselves, it's normal to feel a resistance to it. Lying to myself, and him.

So I had to set him free. Create some distance. Hurt him to save him from being hurt. His only crime? He wasn't you.