You should never look at pictures of your ex on a Sunday morning, listening to “True love waits” by Radiohead. Looking out the window, gray skies and freezing wind awaiting for you in your morning stroll.
You should not wonder why she did what she did. If she understands it now, if she regrets it, if she’s changed. As your busted ankle hurts and you think “Well, this is my life now. I’m officially a cripple.”
You should avoid thinking about her when you find one of her long brown hairs on the lining of your sofa. Specially if those thoughts evoke your fingers running through her hair, your nose diving in the sea of her mane, as you take deep breaths to get every drop of her sweet fragrance.
You should run away from the memories of your steamy sex sessions. Convince yourself that she wasn’t the best lover you’ve ever had, nor dare to fathom a life of women that’ll never live up to what you had together.
You should ignore that she watched the last episodes of BoJack Horseman before you did, and just go about your Netflix as if she’s not using it. Because, why would you care?
You should stop feeling like shit when you cook, eat, sleep, watch tv, buy groceries, ride you bike, go for walks, have coffee and, well, just fucking live on your own. Missing. Miserable. Alone.
You should not doubt for a minute that eventually and inevitably you’ll move on and that, one day, sitting by the window with sad music on as you go through her pictures won’t hurt anymore. At some point, the pain will go away.
But, maybe, you should start by never looking at pictures of your ex on a Sunday morning. Or ever.

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