It’s the hardest lesson I’ve had to learn in my 27 years of existence. I always thought that love conquers all, and that relationships only end when love has withered away. Until my relationship ended while there was still a lot of love in the equation.

I grew up watching Romcoms and Disney fairy tales, where everyone always lives happily ever after.

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Being young and impressionable (and a bit fucking gullible), I bought it hook, line and sinker. It’s the type of wild delusion that can make you read all sorts of signs into situations.

Guy meets girl at rooftop party dedicated to gin (girl’s favourite drink). Guy must leave but texts girl the next day to ask her out on date. Girl reluctantly says yes and they share their first kiss listening to Woodstock Mafia under dim lights and the sensory delights of blazing old fashioneds.



The romantic in me was practically punch drunk dead at this point. I loved telling people how we met. With a story like that, we had to be a match made in heaven, right? Well, not exactly. But then, who said relationships were easy? The Romcoms always rolled to credits before any of the shit hit the fan.

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I wouldn’t take any of it back, because the person I spent these past three years with has been the pineapple to my pina colada. But I guess I never thought I’d ever have to break up with someone I still love.

Sometimes you must let go, even if that’s the last thing you want to do. I didn’t want to end my relationship, but I recognised that the person staring back at me was asking me to be brave and do what was best for the both of us.

So I did.