“Happy 1 year,” the text read. One year since the couple's therapy session when we threw in the towel. Since we decided we'd be better as friends if, somehow, we could push past the pain and grief and history-repeats-itself ache of yet another move, yet another dissolution, yet another attempt at vulnerability held down and suffocated.
She didn't know that I saw the texts — that I knew she slept with another man while I slept on the couch. She didn't know that the conscious uncoupling was only conscious when I thought she had given up.
I replied, “You're four days early.”