you've changed.

There is a moment in most failed relationships when the person who knows you better than you know yourself, who you love beyond anything believable, looks at you like you are a stranger. And not an interesting stranger, like someone you may see on the street for the first time, but a stranger who doesn't care to know you, with eyes full of apathy.

Apathy hurts more than anger, doesn't it?

And in that moment, nothing you could do or say could change anything. You wish you could climb inside his heart and brain and put those little grey's anatomy resuscitating paddles on them and jolt them back to life. Or shake some sense into him and show him pictures of his happy in-love face and remind him that you're still you and he's still him and you're really good together. But you're standing in front of him with your heart in your hands. He's standing in front of you and he's already gone at the same time.

And your body knows before your brain processes it.

Everything closes in around you and the air gets really thick, and your heart drops through your stomach and your skin gets so sensitive you're afraid if he touches you, you may just bruise, or bleed, or crumble.

I've probably been on the giving end of that dynamic but I can't shut off instantaneously. If I love you, I will always love you--even if I can't keep you.

But some men (and women, sure) have a special ability to switch it off and walk away. Washing their hands of you and already on to the next.

I often wish I could do that too. Wouldn't life be so much easier?

I hate that part.