The idea of him actually leaving me felt like an impossibility. It was a normal evening we’d just been for a pint with my brother, and as we set off for the tube, my ex pulled me aside and said, “I want to be on my own.” At first I thought he was joking, and then I thought he was telling me he was moving out of our flat. I was 25 when my ex-boyfriend ended our five-year relationship outside King’s Cross station in London. No thought games where you imagine everything you’d do to get them back: drink a cup of toilet water, cut everyone else out of your life, sit in a room with James Corden for an hour – except you wouldn’t think that, because it’s a joke, and you wouldn’t be making any of those. No listening to Taylor Swift songs and finding it impossible to believe that she didn’t write them specifically for you. No walking through a world where everything reminds you of them, from the blue of your coffee cup matching their eyes to an advert for Jet2 bringing back memories of them wanting to go to Venice. But then I remembered my mum saying that he was a bit of a player once that he had always been the one ending things. “I have to say, I’ve never been heartbroken.” I went to challenge him because, at first, this concept seemed impossible. “It takes me right back to how much he hurt me, like I’ve got PTSD or something. ‘Whenever anyone tells me they’re going through a breakup, it makes me feel sick,” I told my dad, sitting in his kitchen one weekend, during a trip home to Leeds.
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