I kept it safe for a year. Not a single dog-earred corner and a wrinkle wasn’t to be found because I secretly hoped that you would come back soon enough and make each and every word on that piece of paper true again. But I was wrong and today, I sat down and pulled it out from underneath all the junk I have accumulated over the years.
The note is just as white as it was when I first found it in my purse. The stickers you put on it was still shiny and new. But the meaning of the words you handwrote are old; the blue ink stood out like it was written yesterday but the words that had once made my heart skip a beat has died. They don’t do anything to me besides resent you. So I took a deep breath and calmly ripped it up into eight pieces.
This is goodbye to who we were.