It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover (z-lib.org).epub

If I had to compare this feeling to something, I would compare it to death. Not
just the death of anyone. The death of the one. The person who is closer to you than
anyone else in the whole world. The one who, when you simply imagine their death,
it makes your eyes tear up.
That’s what this feels like. It feels like Ryle has died.
It’s an astronomical amount of grief. An enormous amount of pain. It’s a sense
that I’ve lost my best friend, my lover, my husband, my lifeline. But the difference
between this feeling and death is the presence of another emotion that doesn’t
necessarily follow in the event of an actual death.
Hatred.
I am so angry at him, Ellen. Words can’t express the amount of hatred I have for
him. Yet somehow, in the midst of all my hatred, there are waves of reasoning that
flow through me. I start to think things like “But I shouldn’t have had the magnet. I
should have told him about the tattoo from the beginning. I shouldn’t have kept the
journals.”
The reasoning is the hardest part of this. It eats at me, little by little, wearing
down the strength my hatred lends to me. The reasoning forces me to imagine our
future together, and how there are things I could do to prevent that type of anger. I’ll
never betray him again. I’ll never keep secrets from him again. I’ll never give him
reason to react that way again. We’ll both just have to work harder from now on.
For better, for worse, right?
I know these are the things that once went through my mother’s head. But the
difference between the two of us is that she had more to worry about. She didn’t have
the financial stability that I have. She didn’t have the resources to leave and give me
what she thought was a decent shelter. She didn’t want to take me away from my
father when I was used to living with both parents. I have a feeling reasoning really
kicked her ass a time or two.
I can’t even begin to process the thought that I’m having a child with this man.
There is a human being inside of me that we created together. And no matter which
option I choose—whether I choose to stay or choose to leave—neither are choices I
would wish upon my child. To grow up in a broken home or an abusive one? I’ve
already failed this baby in life, and I’ve only known about his or her existence for a
single day.
Ellen, I wish you could write back to me. I wish that you could say something
funny to me right now, because my heart needs it. I have never felt this alone. This
broken. This angry. This hurt.