We had always been together. Always. We were always together--or at least it seemed that way. I couldn't remember how it was before he came. It was like breathing, necessary, important, and, most importantly, addicting.

But that was exactly the problem. I loved him so much and that was why I had to do this. I had to let. Him. Go.

I was poor and worked diligently at my part-time job constantly to help pay for bills and all, especially since I lived alone. Well, I had been disowned, but that was besides the point. If my parents couldn't accept him that was too bad. I loved him that much. But he didn't need to know. He had a swelled head already and all it'd do is cause him to worry so as far as he knows, I moved out in rebellion. Besides, it wasn't like I lived with them before and I still don't now.

I studied so hard and though I was at the top of my class, it just wasn't enough. Pursuing a career as an author wasn't the smartest. It wasn't stable or reliable. It wasn't a constant, but I loved writing, letting my creative ideas flow and freedom run along the pages. He knew that and that was just another reason I loved him.

I wasn't pretty. Ok, so maybe I wasn't ugly either, but I could always hear the scathing comments and though I could tolerate them while I was with him, when I was alone, doubts always plague me. What if I was too ugly, too unreliable, too clingy, too unimportant, too little? What if. What if. What if. When I was alone, that was all I could think and it was just so tiring.

I was always so clumsy, so accident-prone, so unlucky, so undependable, so unneeded. When I was with him, he always saved me from tripping, saved me from erts, saved me from everything--though I swear that he's only saved me from rapists once and that was a really bad day so he needed to chill just a bit. I wouldn't die without him...I think.

I just wasn't right for him.

I wasn't enough or I was too much.

It just wasn't right.

More importantly, I had promised myself. He would be my first and last and only. My first boyfriend and my last husband and my only love. I promised myself that.

Any excuse--the press, another love, no time,  the simple 'it won't work out.' sentence, anything--and I would break it off cleanly. That was what we agreed on when we started it--the relationship--us. No whining, crying, complaining, begging. Nothing. That was what I had decided--promised.

That is why when I hear rumors that he is going out with some girl in that girl group--what is it called again?--I call him up immediately and ask. He denies it passionately. Too fast. Too furious. 

I let a wry smile crawl up my face and say the two sentences that I will regret for my entire life.

It's fine. Let's break up.

Without waiting for a response, I hang up and cry to myself, consoling myself. 

This is all for the better.

It is all for him.

He would be better off without me.

...

Wouldn't he?