Have you ever held a friend's cold, clammy hands as she numbly called the caterers, decorators, choreographers and photographers to cancel her wedding? Have you gripped her shaking shoulders as she packed up the few wedding cards still left to be couriered?
I have.
I was there, a witness to that surreal moment when he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders, packed up his bags, and left in cowardly haste, leaving my shell-shocked friend to figure her way out of a year-long lease for the apartment that was to be their first home together.
I was there to wrench the scissor out of her hand when she wanted to shred her wedding lehenga to ribbons in a helpless rage. I was there each time she twirled the engagement ring on her finger until it was raw and red, wanting to yank it off, yet unable to muster the strength to do it.
And I was there when the packages arrived - all the stuff she'd lovingly bought for her new "home", now piling up in a corner, unopened, gathering dust.
He sent her a cheque to cover his share of the deposits she'd put down; but is there a way to put a price to the moment when you can't allow yourself the luxury of grief because crying can wait, first, you have to ensure that your parents don't fall apart at the news?
Of course you hate the person who does this to you or yours. How can you not? We've all been there. Love might mean different things to different people, but heartbreak is universal. We're all cohorts, when it comes to having our hearts yanked out of their ribcages and stomped all over by people who didn't know what to do with them.
One day you're lying in bed, limbs entangled, giggling over a Netflix comedy special that's not even very funny, wondering if you'll ever have the energy or the money to raise a child, and the very next day they're telling you they don't want to be with you anymore.
You see their lips moving, but the words don't make sense. They seemed perfectly happy yesterday, so how can things just suddenly have "stopped working" for them today? Who are they to decide you "deserve better"?
And then they leave.
In one incomprehensible moment, your reality is altered forever. The sane part of you knew that giving your heart to someone always comes with that risk, but in that moment, you wish you'd never made that leap of faith. You wish you'd listened when your friends told you that some day, they're going to realise you're too much for them. Too strong, too broken, too messy, too dedicated, too complex, too much in love... Too... Something.
Someone wiser than you will have told you that there doesn't have to necessarily be a reason, but they'll still manage to find one if they really want to leave. The words made you uncomfortable then, mostly because you could recognise a grain of your own truth in them. The thought of loving someone, of wanting them, sometimes even needing them more than they did you was scary, and so you pretended it wasn't true. But you knew. You always knew.
You sit there immobile, for seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour, or two, or five. As if, somehow, if you don't move, time will stand still. Or better still, rewind itself. As if doing something, or even just saying the words out loud to someone, will bring with it a finality you're not yet prepared to face. Maybe if you sit like this for long enough, you can prevent your heart from shattering.
It doesn't.
Because on the inside, you're free falling. As if you've shoved been shoved off a cliff, and in your panic, you're clawing at every rock on the way down, hoping for one that might give a little so you can cling to it and climb your way back up to solid ground.
All the way down, you wonder, was it something you did? Maybe something you didn't do? Was the fight when you insulted their parents the straw that broke the camel's back? You wish you'd had the sense to hold your tongue before the words came tumbling out. Your mind conjures up the memory of their face crumpling like balled up paper as your words find their mark. The memory feels like the cold, hard blade of a knife twisting in your gut.
For a long time after, you oscillate between thinking it's all their fault - they're selfish self-centred people who don't know how to love or be loved, and self-loathing because you actually secretly believe it's all yours.
You're scared you'll drown in the darkness of your thoughts, so you log on to Tinder. A silly friend, in their good-natured attempt to cheer you up, told you that the best way to get over someone is to get under them. In a moment of oppressive alone-ness, you decide that's a good idea. The good thing about Tinder is, not much changes. You can even vaguely remember some of the people you swiped left or right on, in your earlier life.
It's a welcome escape. And for a while, you're mildly addicted to this hedonistic, gamified version of romance.
You carry these flighty romances with you, tucked safely in your pocket, on the seemingly life-changing vacations you will take in the aftermath of heartbreak. And you gather some more while you're there. You smile sunnily in photographs to be dutifully sent to worried friends and family. They respond with appropriately fake, encouraging messages. They know you're not okay, but at least you don't seem suicidal. You know you're not okay, but there's nothing glamorous or inspiring about admitting that your heart still pines for the person who said they didn't love you.
The charade of happiness continues.
You imagine yourself in love with strangers you have little in common with, people that the older version of you would probably not even have been friends with. Your friends encourage you to "go with the flow".
Eventually, the restlessness catches up with you. You make drastic decisions. Maybe change jobs, or cities, or countries. You stop responding to messages that sap you of your energy, stop taking calls from people you never really cared about. There is some gossip about you losing your marbles, but you realise you no longer care. Clumsily, old relationships start tapering off, as you disappear into the new, smaller, more close-knit world you built for yourself, without even realising it.
The pain doesn't magically disappear, but you learn to handle it better. Slowly, the memories fade. You think of them lesser and lesser. You might even meet people you think you could have fallen in love with, but you decide to give yourself more time. Somewhere along the way, you stopped fighting your vulnerabilities. It's the best thing you've done for yourself in a while.
You know now, that when you have your heart broken, you don't just have to learn how to stop loving someone, you have to learn how to love the person you're going to be after they've left. You're willing to put in the time.
One day, out of the blue, you run into them. It shocks you, and makes your heart race. You pretend to not have seen them and duck out without making eye contact. Or you hug awkwardly and exchange pleasantries. Either way, the encounter makes you wonder if you're still in love with them. Maybe you are, perhaps you're not. But it feels different. You realise the reality of them is nothing like the image in your head. Maybe it never was. The thought makes you smile.
That night, you call the person you think you could fall in love with. If you're lucky, they're still single. You arrange to meet them at a bar the next day. You're finally ready to run the risk of having your heart broken again.
Because this time, you know it can only change, not destroy you.
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