"That's not giving up. That's me just..." He searched around for a word, "losing interest."
The thing is, she knew that was what happened. She had repeated it to herself over and over again, on lonely nights when she needed someone to talk to and found no one, when she walked into the coffee shop that used to be theirs, when she sat across the room from him where she used to sit beside him.
But when she was saying it to herself, there was always a chance that she could be wrong. That it was all a big misunderstanding. Now, there's no misunderstanding. There was him, setting out the facts.
Just talking doesn't even make her feel better anymore. She's basically just throwing salt up into the air and letting it land on everybody's wounds. If ever there were a time to walk away, it would be now.
But God, it's hard. It's hard to let him go. It's hard to pretend that he is the scum of the earth when he keeps proving he's not, and she hates him, she hates him for not making it easy.
She finally got what it means to feel heartbroken. It's an actual sensation, like a rending of muscle and a rush of hot liquid through your veins that hurts, really hurts. It hurts because she looks at him, and thinks, "no, I don't hate you at all, even if hatred is the only feeling you deserve from me."
