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  • It's been a month since we broke up. A month of "friends with no benefits" and "not quite there, yet somehow never here". We still talk every day about the same things we once told each other under the safety of your bedsheets.

    And then you tell me that you're talking to another girl.

    I tell myself that sometimes the only way to stop hurting is to make yourself hurt more, to the point where you can't endure it and you just go numb, so I ask you what she's like and with two words you break me.

    "Like you."

    Like me?! Like me, like she has two eyes, ten toes, and a broken heart? Or like me, like at night she dreams that Steve Jobs is taunting Mark Zuckerberg by creating a celestial social network? Is it that she meditates by examining the perfect symmetry of her hands like me? Like me, like she insists you trace her back with the ghost tips of your fingers before she sleeps or like me, like when she goes silent, you know it's because she's mentally writing a new chapter in that book she's always working on?

    Like to you I wasn't anything more than a dirty pair of pants and you could get in some new ones without noticing the difference. Or was it a compliment, like you liked my operating software so much you didn't feel like upgrading?

    I ask myself how she would handle this news. If she would silently break down or scream at you to go fuck yourself. Are you comparing us now? Am I coming up lacking?

    I don't say anything. How can I when you've taken my voice and given it to some other girl? Instead I stare at those words in my phone for so long that when I finally look up I can see them hanging in the air around me.

    Like. You. Likeyou. Like you like you like you (I don't) like you.
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