Pretend.

Looking back now, it’s almost strange how quietly everything fell apart.

When we first got together, it felt like fireworks — the kind of love that makes you believe in forever without even thinking twice.

We were obsessed with each other, addicted to the feeling of being wanted, needed, loved.

Everything was intense, passionate, reckless — but maybe that was the problem all along.

Over time, the excitement faded.

The texts became less urgent.

The dates started feeling more like routines we were obligated to keep.

The "I love you"s turned into background noise, something we said more out of habit than feeling.

We didn’t fight, not at first.

We just... grew indifferent.

It was like we both silently agreed to stop trying, even though no one ever said it out loud.

And when boredom crept in, so did temptation.

I guess I wanted to feel alive again, to feel something.

Someone new gave me that — the thrill, the attention, the spark I hadn't felt in a long time.

At first, I told myself it didn’t mean anything.

It was just a stupid mistake.

But deep down, I knew I was crossing a line I couldn’t uncross.

What I didn’t know was that he was doing the same thing.

Somewhere along the way, he found someone else too — someone who made him laugh in ways I hadn’t in months, someone who didn’t feel like a responsibility.

Maybe it would’ve hurt more if either of us had actually cared enough to be devastated.

But when the truth came out, when we finally sat across from each other and realized we were both guilty, all I felt was relief.

There were no tears, no dramatic goodbyes.

Just a quiet understanding that whatever we had was already gone — long before the lies, long before the betrayals.

We broke up that night with a sad kind of smile, almost like two old friends acknowledging the end of a story they both knew had overstayed its welcome.

It wasn't hate that ended us.

It was boredom, and the need to feel alive — even if it meant finding that life in someone else's arms.