The hard part is falling out of love with the idea of someone, I’ve discovered. You can strip a list of faults out of a living, breathing, tangible human who makes mistakes and burns bridges and takes too long to call, but an idea? An idea is malleable. An idea can be shaped into the way you want to remember it (you don’t remember what happened - what you remember becomes what happened), diluted into bittersweet nostalgia that lingers on the tip of your tongue. An idea is what sets the hurdles for anyone who could possibly come after, what ruins you for anyone who could possibly come after. An idea is the ghost of a boy who stole your entire life and moulded it into an orbit around him, who held your hand under the open sky until his promises bled into your skin. An idea is indelible ink - impossible to forget, not once it’s sunk into the depths of your bones.