Easy

It’s easier to pretend that she doesn’t exist. When he mentions her, and he always does. Or that she’s someone else. An ex, or a friend or a relative. A part of his life. A piece of the puzzle that makes him whole. But a piece that he could live without, if he had to. If it ever came to that.

It’s easier to pretend that she’ll never know. That a secret the size of the Atlantic Ocean can fit in the palm of my hand and stay there. That we could dream of forever without it having to be such a fairy tale.

It’s easier to pretend that he’s lying. When he says he’s happy. With his life with her. That he thinks it’s what I want to hear. Because it’s simpler that way. And somehow, it makes him a better person.

It’s easier to pretend I’ll be able to walk away. When all of this falls apart. That we’ll all just forgive. And forget.