She didn’t cry, but I saw the sadness in her green eyes. The Mancunian girl looked at me and said “she’s better fucking worth it.” I agreed. “Me too” I responded, feeling like shit. It was me who provoked that sorrow in her, but not even I was sure I was making the right choice. Felt the need to confess that I had been talking with my Norwegian ex, the infamous “viking”, and that she wanted to get back with me. And it was me too who invited her to live with me, knowing beforehand that I was still in love with that ex. It was me who couldn’t let go the opportunity of being with both of them again. I was the one who got his feelings confused every day of the three weeks she had already lived with me as my lover. And it was me who cried. For her, for my ex and, most of all, for the old version of myself who used to believe that the British girl with whom he bonded so easily could be one he could love. It were tears of mourning I cried. He had died.