Kate Demolder writes about being, breaking and beginning again.
A recent time I am heartbroken; it is New Year’s Eve. I am 24, not nearly 25, haunted by the houses I’d let myself inhabit while mending a broken heart, trying still to tear down the walls I had not yet come by. Eight weeks earlier, after being let go from a job I didn’t love, my boyfriend fucked someone at his Christmas party. My life is full, I think, stripping my bed an hour before he is due over. Before he tells me. He will be hungover, I understand. Maybe I’ll be gentler than usual.
Kate Demolder writes about being, breaking and beginning again.
A recent time I am heartbroken; it is New Year’s Eve. I am 24, not nearly 25, haunted by the houses I’d let myself inhabit while mending a broken heart, trying still to tear down the walls I had not yet come by. Eight weeks earlier, after being let go from a job I didn’t love, my boyfriend fucked someone at his Christmas party. My life is full, I think, stripping my bed an hour before he is due over. Before he tells me . . .
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