You didn't want him when he wanted you...

Why it's so hard to lead completely separate life when it comes to an end? Like possessed sleuthes you rummage anything pertaining to the ex and rejoice in it though just a while ago it seemed to be completely beneath your dignity. I can't get why it is happening to me? I've never been this acquisitive kind of girl who would interrogate the partner by the light of a green lamp on the brass-and-oak bureau amid the sound of the briskly confident tapping by two pretty and blond typists. While typing this senseless grotesque simile, I realized that it's all about the idea preconsciously embedded by all the great novelists who bring some minor character into the story without an end, as they can't let him go. Therefore, the feel of despondency floods through me as I comprehend that I should take leave of my character but not the story.