Goodnight nobody. in On loves.

Technically, we broke up in our therapist’s office on a Thursday afternoon. But it wasn’t until that Sunday that the finality of what we—or, really, he—had done sunk in. The rain fell from a gray sky onto a gray city as I drove him home on that Monday morning at 7 am. The streets were empty, I wore a gray sweater. Thought, not then but now, about how the only thing 50 Shades of Gray got right was the stormy, rainy backdrop, true to Seattle’s weather, and how he and I commented on that as we rolled our eyes through that movie together one night, a hundred years ago.

Forty-eight days have passed since I last saw him, felt his tears wet against my cheek, felt him heave in my arms, said I love you over and over and goodbye only once. I have had around maybe 30 or 35 social experiences since then. I have eaten one steak, gained five pounds, made half a dozen new friends, had one cold, hopped on one flight, spent a week at a retreat, gotten a new job, had my hair bleached once, had one laser peel, and seen one lost hamster circling frantically in someone’s driveway.

Sometimes, I wake up during the first hour after falling asleep at night with an ache so deep and one thought in my mind: I need to text him. Like an old, flickering lightbulb, the text I think to send it always the same: I miss you so much. It is, I am aware, uninspired, unoriginal, generic and lame and so ordinary. There is nothing in it that is at all reminiscent of “us.” It is a text that has been sent a million times to and from a million people, and I dismiss it, don’t entertain the idea of sending it. And yet. I miss you so much. It’s the goddamned truth.

*I wrote this on 4/19/19, but apparently never posted it, so here it is

Last updated May 26, 2019