Paint Me Like Your Ex: A Breakup Diary
A story of heartbreak, haircuts, and hotness. Note to self: You weren’t dumped. You were reborn.
A story of heartbreak, haircuts, and hotness. Note to self: You weren’t dumped. You were reborn.
He said, “It’s not you, it’s me.” It’s definitely him. One minute he’s my soulmate, the next he’s a lesson with commitment issues and now I am spilaring on my own bathroom floor.
It’s giving “I haven’t left my bed in 72 hours” chic. It's 4:07 AM. Lana’s playing. My dignity is not. Is this heartbreak or just very curated suffering?
I asked for “just a trim.” Walked out with a bob and a new identity. My ex never saw my breakdown coming, but my hairstylist? She felt it
3 selfies. 2 thirst traps. 1 quote: “You’ll regret this.” He muted me. But his best friend didn’t. Healing? Not yet. Entertaining? Very.
They said dress for the job you want. I dressed to haunt his memories. No closure. Just couture. My dress is tight. My standards? Tighter.
I typed a novel. Deleted it. Sent: “Hope you’re doing well :)” What I meant: “I hope your charger stops working in bed.”
Hair: new. Mood: expensive. I’m softer now. But hotter. From sad girl to savage with really good skincare. He lost me. But I? Found SPF, journaling, and inner peace (on sale).