I scroll through pictures you’ve texted me, hoping to find something that can spark writing about the betrayal.
Instead, I find the other side of the betrayal. Betrayal doesn’t hurt just because it’s cruel and mean. It hurts because it comes from someone you love, someone you thought loved you.
I keep finding pictures of the coffee maker.
You used to set the coffee maker at night and text me a picture of when it would brew.
(I miss you.)