Two months since we broke up. Two days before my mother got taken into hospital. It hasn’t been a fun two months. So tonight we rehearsed, as the show must go on, and I’m still in it. We rehearsed at your place. Your mother treated me as she always did, polite and friendly. Once the cast were in place, we all laughed, joked, and carried on as we always do. It broke my fucking heart. To watch you make a joke, to appreciate your writing, to feel the possessive proudness of you that I have always had and haven’t lost, and to know that your success and your skill are now nothing to do with me; I have no right to feel this pride anymore. I have no right to wander around your house and treat it like my own. I cannot have secret, whispered, giggly and intimate moments with you in between rehearsing, and I cannot entwine my hand with yours and kiss your cheek in pride. You still make me laugh. I still make you laugh. Everything is the same, but everything is different. Because you don’t want me. My heart hurts this evening. I wish you were a bastard and we didn’t have mutual friends, because then I could least vent my anger against you and receive support. But no. They love you. They love me. I am impotent. And I have to watch you gradually slipping away, and say nothing. Fuck you for making me feel this. Fuck you.

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