The day after our last fight, you told her that she was beautiful. She said that you were charming. It was probably then that you decided that gaining perspective was worth losing a "soul mate." It was after reading those words that I noticed you left me as much as I left you. The next week entailed a pinch of public humiliation and reassessing seven years of platitudes, over fried sandwiches and token gestures. You didn't consider the new girl yet, but you would eventually. The old one disappeared into herself, waved at you from afar, spoke in third person. The lies were woven tightly with truths, tendons and muscles. Those muscles stayed tight. I tucked myself in, sheets as taut as muscles, as resistant as the ache. The day I realized that my bed was unmade was the day I let you go.