Without knowing I am a person who works with words, or that one of my favorite punctuation marks is the em dash, she said, "Maybe he's like the dash between your old life and your new one."
She was right. That was perfect. He was the dash—he is it, and every time he does something that reminds me he's not my future, I see it. The long line separating my old ways of thinking and acting from my new ways. The blade slicing through the fat, carving away what was never meant to be. The flatline of old me... a thin thread whose ends only have one thing in common: this body, this story, the letters on the page above and below.
I can't wait to move on to the period.
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