I may or may not have curled up with his scarf last night, breathing in every bit of him in.
I'm somewhere in the middle of all of this. I don't want him here, I don't want him to know me, I want to be alone, I want to prove to every damn person I'm fine, I'm fine, I don't want anyone in my space, I don't want a man to think I need him.
I don't want him in my bed. I have a point to prove.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I am fine.
All those nights pressed against him in our bed, in our bedroom, in our brownstone, on our tree-lined street that always had such a lovely slightly menacing air about it, they don't mean anything now. And maybe it is my ego, maybe I'm fighting my ego more than I'm fighting heartbreak, maybe I can't get over Chicago because Chicago is my real love, the place I tried so hard to make my own, the place I can't bear to stay. He is everywhere. Chicago is ours.
I feel like I'm quitting. He broke up with me and now I have to break up with Chicago. My heart is breaking over a city. It's breaking over a damn city. It's breaking over all my dreams coming to a sudden halt, all my plans, all that I had been doing, it's all done.
My heart is broken, and I can't quite pinpoint why.
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