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I saw her with him. She looked happy, in love even. He had his arms around her waist, she same way used to hold her. When she hugged him she ran her hands up his shirt; she was feeling his warmth. I know this because she would do the same with me. When he kissed her I wanted to pull him off, and say she was mine. I wanted to hurt him for holding her like I did, but instead it hurts me. I lay awake at night wondering if she does things with him, the same things we did. I wonder if she plays guitar for him, and sings him songs she wrote herself. I wonder if she plays with his hair, or wakes him up with kisses. She probably watches the rain with him while reading Courtney Peppernell. It hurts knowing he sleeps in the same spot I used too. Her parents probably love him, and welcome him like family. He cooks dinner with her mom and talks about the future with her dad. He gets along her her little siblings and has secret handshakes with them. Their love story is probably just a rerun of the one we made. I won’t believe otherwise. That’s our love, he’s just playing the part. She told me she’d never leave, yet here we are. I hate it. God it really fucking hurts.