We haven’t even made love for the past three months because of his constant going out with Emilia. With that alone, I don’t need to clarify further why I need to break up with him.
“Make sure you’re gone when I’m finished showering or else I’ll dump your clothes and things outside like some bags of trash,” I hissed, not bothering to sound angry—‘cause I fucking am.
***
Apparently, he was still in my apartment even when I finished my bath.
“Why?” was all he muttered.
He was leaning one hand to the door frame, the other to his waist as if he was standing outside the bathroom the entire time I took a shower, listening to the soap rubbing my skin and the sound of the water washing away any trace of filth in my body.
He’s the only filth left in this place.
“Go be with Emilia. That’s what you want and have been doing all this time, isn’t it?”
Earlier when I left, I saw Emilia posted a picture of her in a car with the caption: “Thank you for always being with me when I’m drunk even in your current state of recovering from being rejected.”