She knew how to win. She always did. She knew that those final words, were that, final. And the moment she let herself express them she knew exactly how it would end. It was almost a routine. The routine that ended with her not feeling enough; not stopping her from saying more, not being able to contain her damn emotions. And this pissed her off.

So she went, walking in the street, taking her joirnal with her, breaking his heart in pieces, and in the process hating herself. How can she be so dumb? She would say to herself, but she was not dumb. She knew exactly what she said, how she said it, and now she is walking at a fast pace, now 3 blocks away from his house.

Its been 15 minutes, of course its raining and of course there is a happy couple under an umbrella dancing in love in the rain. A fucking movie. A fucking movie is what she felt before. A damn movie. But 20 minutes ago it was less than dreamy. It was her walking, completely soaked, thinking she would go back for just one more minute. And then 25 minutes before that, she was completely blinded by rage that it was hard to keep a pace that didnt lead to her hiperventilating.

It was now the third time this discussion happned, and as she remembered her night, she could not comprehend why it was so hard for him to understand her. Were they too different? Were they not meant to be together? Was this effort totally useless? That was the tiping point, the last questions she asked before he replied with a tired and frustrated “maybe”. And 35 minutes ago she pondered that “maybe”, glanced at thr door, that always was so conviently close. And that was the end. What once was her greatest love story, it was not anymore. It was just her now former life. One she thought would never end. But 50 minutes ago, she knew either way.