Shwet’s review published on Letterboxd:
What is love
if not an endless tirade of treading on broken glass;
if not a wedding between shotguns and paper rings;
if not a dormant Vesuvius waiting to viciously strike Pompeii;
if not popping pills and losing sleep to a physical exhaustion;
if not lying your way through to spiritual emptiness;
if not fatigue, if not cynicism;
if not hate disguised;
if not an addiction to a chemical high no less than eating a bar of chocolate;
an expensive, expired bar of chocolate?
Perhaps you'd say I know not what love is but I'd say you know not what real life is.
This is real life. It’s not perfect but this is it. This is how it ends. You fight, you say you’ll make amends, and then it ends because when they said “I love you” they didn’t really mean it but they mean it now when they say they don’t love you anymore.
I’m sick of this charade.
But don't take my word for it, I'm just hurt and forlorn.