I’m turning off Interstate 87 into a quiet rural town in Upstate New York when my phone starts ringing. I know who it is, but I chance a look down anyway, and I’m met with the smarmy face of my ex-boyfriend. 

It’s been two weeks, and I wish he’d just give it a rest. This was the last time, the last goodbye, and I need him to know I am never crawling back to him.

I’m past the point of grieving, where I sat in my childhood bedroom wondering why I wasn’t enough for him. I’m in the acceptance phase now. The “rent myself a cabin in the woods and drive three hours into the forest for some peace” phase.

Benjamin’s the one who cheated on me, yet somehow, his guilty conscience about abandoning me over Christmas break for his high-school ex is my problem. The girl he swore was just an old friend turned out to be the one that got away, apparently. 

An entire year of my life was wasted waiting for him to be “ready for a bigger commitment.” His words, not mine. I had to grin and bear my way