I can't help feeling that this story is just like a scene from "Someone Like You." Honestly, maybe this is fine too. No arguments, no fuss. No hysteria, no soul-crushing pain. I'll just watch you indifferently, and make you feel regret, disappointment, and that lingering sense of resentment. You can call me childish, but this is the pride that will be the death of me.
In fact, this is a complicated dream. In the dream, we are all still young, like unbloomed flowers.