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The Game of Broken Hearts

She secretly dies even though they both know that it's not really a secret. She acts like she moved on even though they both know that she is grasping at straws. She tells him that they can be friends even though they both know that they can't even look at each other without flaming tendrils of what they used to be flickering through the spider web of veins laced through their bodies.

They smile with pain and force laughs when they are supposed to, but it's a hard task to keep pretending. Each giggle resonates through her empty chest like an echoing cry for help. He tries to play it cool, he's still as chill as ever, right? But then he sees her face and is reminded of all the mistakes he made, all the hurt he caused that has come back to hurt him too.

He looks, and she shakes her head because he won't shake his. He turns away, acts like it's her when they both know it's neither. He hates himself for hurting even though they both know that they could never be that happy anyway. Now, even of she wants to, she could never take him back. Not after what he said, what he did, what he never bothered to promise. But oh, she misses him with the force of a tidal wave. Still, she knows she made mistakes too. She knows she is to blame too.

This is the Game of Broken Hearts. The one where everyone pretends to be fine, better than fine, but really wants to cry when they see breaker of said heart's face. It's not a fun game, there are no winners and there are no rules, except one:

Keep pretending.

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