"I can't fake it till I make it right now. I'm still really hurt and need time to process that. I'm sorry."
There's only so many times you can reach out just to be told that's the best they can do, sorry you need more, but they don't feel bad and aren't sorry for any of it, because they did the best they could.
There's only so many times you can feel the aubergine and black heartbreak arc underneath your skin before you can't pretend to overlook it in favor of the cerulean and sunny skies they see because you show up for them.
There's only so many times when telling them what you need becomes an argument before apologies won't hold off the apocalyptic end of something you'd hoped would last.
There's only so much fighting for it before the scars from the last time are still too fresh that no pretending the next day will make it better.
There's only so long before it's too raw the day after what felt like the apocalypse of two that you can't pretend to feel loved. That no apology will be enough of a salve to soothe the burn of that kind of explosion.
There's only so long before it's Post-Apologetic.