"No, it's not different. You are 'the other woman,'" I told her as gentle as I knew how for such a situation.
"No, I'm not," she trembled. "He's mine. He loves me. She's the other woman!"
"He was yours, Lisa." I paused. I looked at her with pity. Her mascara and tears made black rivers down her face. I handed her the box of Kleenex.
"I can't stop you," I said. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She gripped it tightly, but I pulled it away and walked out of the room.
That was two weeks ago. She still calls him. She's obsessed. There's not much I can do. She was doing fine without him, then she heard he had a new girlfriend. When she called him to chat, I could tell he was surprised. Their breakup wasn't an easy on, but it was inevitable. They're just not the same people they were.
She's incredibly not well read. He needs someone who can stimulate his mind with interes...
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