I’m not famous. If I did anything on Instagram, you wouldn’t write about it. But when I broke up with my boyfriend of seven years, I became the talk of the internet. And everyone knew how it happened.
They knew that I told him I didn’t love him anymore, that I was standing in my pink Bonds undies, and that I was the most horrible, heartless person they’d ever read about.
No, my ex-boyfriend wasn’t Calvin Harris, but reading his tweets, it could well have been.
It was really late at night. Dan* and I were standing in our rented apartment. I spoke, then cried and he packed a bag and walked out the door, uttering a soft “I love you” as the hinges squeaked closed.
I stood there thinking: “This needed to happen. It’s the right thing for both of us. We’d been together for too long. He knows that in his heart.”
Our high-school-turned-uni-turned-fake-adult relationship was packaged like a massive, juicy pinata painted with our vomit-worthy loved-up selfies, bursting at the seams with every detail of every fight we'd ever had, waiting for someone to take the first swing.
The first batter up was my ex, and boy did he let loose.
Dan had spared no time letting Facebook know he was single. That's fine, I thought.
During the throws of our emotional "uncoupling", we hadn't talked about how we'd announce the news on Facebook or social media. Because only celebrities do that and no one gives a nosey crap about what we do.
"LOL you guys are so funny," a person I am no longer friends with commented.
"Haha. If this actually happened I wouldn't even be sad because there's no way it could be true," someone I had never met wrote.