She moved on and I feel sorry for you, because she overlooked your flaws, your temper, your selfishness, your inability to love anyone but yourself. She could have anyone in the world, but she still chose you every time. All you are now is a crease in her past, a scar on her chest, a memory that fades faster than a photograph of you in a sealed box, hidden. Maybe now she will fight for someone who loves her, instead of someone who sucks the life out of her, never satisfied, even with her beating heart in his greedy hands.
If you want crappy things to stop happening to you, then stop accepting crap and demand something more.
We can choose to be afraid of it, to stand there trembling, not moving, assuming the worst that can happen. Or we step forward into the unknown, and assume it will be brilliant.
If I murdered someone, she’s the one I’d call to help me drag the corpse across the living room floor. She’s my person.