“It gets easier. It gets easier every day.”

The glisten hit him at the right angle: slightly above the corner of his eye, but gently at the denser center of his eyebrow. It conveniently created the cinematic effect of “waking up to the sunlight” often depicted in Hollywood movies, unconsciously basking in a golden shower of beams, and consciously bringing himself up from the right side of the bed, looking out of the window or from whichever direction the sun was gorgeously smiling at him.

It was a sign of renewal, the recuperation of a healing wound, and the rejuvenation of his cells as if he was born into this world today and he got to experience all the wonders all over again. He got a clean slate, he could do anything he wanted; life was never more lenient; he could almost feel liberty at the tip of his fingers, the refreshing green-grass essence coming in his next breath, the reserved, unintended, and innocent grin of his former lover printed before his eyes—OH fuck.

Fuck.

They ain’t talking anymore. That’s what a Hollywood morning does to a person. You’d think that the day after the “happily ever after” is the curtain call. A magical moment that turns everything fine. One day, we’d wake up feeling “that’s all I’ve ever wanted” for life. But what about the next day? What about the next day after the Hollywood ending?

“It gets easier every day. But you gotta do it every day, and that’s the hard part.”