I’ll never forget the night Brandon broke up with me. Though it happened more than sixteen years ago, the intensity of that experience remains seared upon my memory even now. It was my sophomore year in high school. I was happy and thriving—with plenty of friends and a good-looking, popular boyfriend who seemed to worship the ground I walked on. Life was fun and fulfilling. And then, within the space of a five-minute phone conversation, my world came crashing down around me.
“I think we should break up,” Brandon told me, with a matter-of-factness that dug into me like a knife.
My trembling fingers tightened around the phone cord, and I choked back the sob that threatened to explode from my tightening lungs. This didn’t make sense. Hadn’t he said he would always love me? Hadn’t he told me, time and time again, that he could never live without me? Didn’t he appreciate the fact that I had built my entire world around him for the past eight months?
Didn’t he remember the countless hours we had spent together, declaring our devotion and love for each other and selecting names for our future children?
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