“So”, she asked me, “did you love him?”
I thought back, to every time I would tell him to be careful going home. To every kiss he’d force out of me. To the times I fell asleep with my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his pulse through the shirts he wore, only to wake up to a cold bed and an even colder ‘get up already’. I recalled his fingers running down my spine, breath against my neck and lips against mine. I remembered his yells of ‘whore!’ directed at me, at my friends, the door slamming, the echoing sobs that left scars on my memories of our tiled bathroom floors. I thought about what love meant, what I used to think love meant to me.
“No.” I told her. “I never loved him.
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