No, I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me.

Image by the fantastic Stuart F Taylor

A random selection of ridiculous reasons why boys aren’t allowed to break up with me. FYI.

No, I’m sorry, you can’t break up with me, we’ve only been an item for a week! I know your mate said you’re dumping me because I wouldn’t kiss you, but when we spent last Saturday holding hands all afternoon, I was dying to lean in for a snog! I just didn’t have the courage, and I thought you’d make a move first. So you can’t break up with me, I really want to kiss you.

No, I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me. We’ve only been going out since Geography class before breaktime! We haven’t even spoken since then, let alone had time to kiss goodbye at the school gates! I didn’t get the chance to tell my Mum I’ve got a boyfriend, so you can’t break up with me: not yet, at any rate.

No, I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me. I really really like you! You told me that the skin between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand was the softest thing you’d ever touched. I showed you where to find my clit, and gave you your first blow job.

No, I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me. We have such spectacular sex! All fighting and biting and weird new kinks, and I’m not sure anyone else can do the same. I’m buying a flat, don’t you want to live there with me? It’s a good investment, I promise. I’m a good investment. I think.

No, I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me: we have so much fucking fun! Like the other day when we made a perfect Lego tower, with rainbow bricks reaching four feet off the floor, neatly joined together in sections we’d built as a team. So I’m sorry, but you can’t break up with me, who would get custody of the Leg

You can’t break up with me: you know which glass I like to drink milk out of!

I really like your Mum.

We’ve got tickets to a punk gig: without me, who would you go with?

Remember how you never have any stamps but very occasionally you need to send a letter and I let you rummage in my wallet for the book of 1st class ones that I always – always – have available? You can’t break up with me, you’ll never have any fucking stamps!

What will our friends think when I turn up to parties without you? And what about your friends? I’ll miss them.

I can’t face OKCupid again. Not now it’s 2019.

I abandoned the things that I wanted to do, and now it’s too late to do them, and the life we were building together was the only future I could see, and now that future is a howling, desolate emptiness that I do not have the energy to fill. So I’m sorry, but you can’t break up with me. I’m exhausted.

If we break up, we’ll never again make tacos together, or cocktails. Or Lego. Never listen to podcasts with sheet masks on our faces, trying so hard not to giggle that we end up cracking up. Never again play Beat Saber, and I was just getting good at it!

I’m sorry, you can’t break up with me: we own this house. We chose this sofa. We built these shelves. We have finally fine-tuned our recipe for macaroni cheese.

So I’m sorry. You can’t break up with me.

No.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Please, no.

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