It's over. Whatever we were. Whatever this was, is done. Not because you or I decided, but simply that our time has run out. Like the expiration date on milk that you don't notice until you've poured yourself a nice glass.
I'm not ready to move on, but the scary fact is I have no choice in the matter. The sight of you makes me physically ill. Bringing the bitter taste of bile into my throat. Poison.
I don't want you out of my life. In fact, I don't think I could handle it. But I can't pretend I'm okay anymore. It's breaking me. It broke us. Now's not the time for makebelieve. Whatever we were/are/were becoming is over. I'm done.
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