It helps that I’m mad at him; that makes it easier to leave, but I won’t be able to forget. The vile things we’ve done to each other and the way we loved each other are seared deeply into my brain, both as raw as they ever were, and I don’t see that changing. I don’t think these are the kind of things you can just forget about or cut out. They’re the kind of things that haunt you when you’re old, the kind that will keep you up at night, squeezing your heart while you ruminate over all of the ways you could have done things differently and wonder how it could still—after all this time—possibly
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