noun re•sent•ment \ri-ˈzent-mənt\The act of hating – no, fucking loathing Dean Collins. (Yes, I’m well aware that’s not the actual definition, but it might as well be . . .)
It’s been ten years since we’ve seen each other and the feelings are still as strong.
I’m not going to bore you with all the details of how our love was once intoxicating, consuming, and perfect.
Because it was . . . until it wasn’t.
I’ve been fine without him. I haven’t missed his cruelty, his coldness and his spite.
And after the ugliest breakup in the history of breakups, I forced myself to move on.
Year by year, the feelings I had for him slowly drifted away, but one encounter with him recently changed everything. One encounter made me realize how the heart doesn’t forget shit, and how my mind is going to have to work overtime to make sure I never forget my definition of resentment.
London is an aspiring author who is currently trapped in a terrible 9 to 5 and
wishes Starbucks actually made decent drinks. She recently discovered her
passion for writing after reading a ton of amazing indie books, and she’s
gearing up to publish her first book this summer.
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