All those (less than) men before me must have gotten her being used to faking love at her convenience. Or we can blame all those Cinderella stories for her having no (excuse my French AND English) fucking clue what true love is.
No matter how much I pull my hair in trying to understand her reasons for subjecting herself to potentially devastating consequences, her cheatings, lies and empty promises speak of a totally different individual (and spirit) she truly is.
If she was just a number (in men’s lives) to herself, at least I was not, no matter how strongly she disagrees. Her past, present and future speaks volumes about the sanctity of these words I write.