Roulette

Of course it’s raining. Another lonely night in København. Gray old Copenhagen. Suits the mood, though. The post-breakup sorrow. The regrets. All those fucking regrets.
Last Saturday morning, I opened the window and looked out. It was cold. My building door swung open and she came out. C. My eyes followed her all the way down to the corner, until she turned into the main street and disappeared. She looked back a couple of times. I’ll never know if she saw me staring at her or what she was even looking at. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Our hearts broke that day. And mine breaks again, as I realize that this will be my last memory of her.
Tipsy on cheap Italian wine, I snug under a blanket on my couch. It’s Friday night and it keeps on raining outside. For the first time in a while, I’m not spending the weekend with my ex. The first of many weekends apart to come. At least we are not fighting, arguing about who’s right and who’s wrong. Refreshing, in a way. But sad, knowing the stupid reason why we broke things up. Absolutely not worth it.
There was really no winning. We played Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. In the end, we were both right. And now we are rightfully alone.

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