I was so angry.
Not because we’d ended, or because things hadn’t worked out the way I’d hoped. I wasn’t angry because I loved him so much that I’d given up half of my dreams for him. It wasn’t even because he’d tainted every memory I had, every ounce of happiness I’d allowed myself - not because he’d taken the light and cast shadows everywhere.
I was angry because I’d tried so hard to make things work. Because I’d given so much of myself to something that must have been doomed from the start. I was angry because I’d allowed myself to love a person who would never have understood that love. I was angry because I’d broken my own heart.