The first stage is wet. It is wet because you are crying, because you cannot even watch someone break bread with their hands without being reminded of how his rough fingers felt against your skin. You will turn off your phone. You will skip the classes he is in because even seeing his face is enough to reduce you to shakes and sobs. You will close the door to everyone but him, hoping he will come home soon. He will not. It is okay to not know this yet. It is okay to cry, to feel loneliness hitting you like a freight train in the morning when the first thing you think of is his loss. You will pretend to be his friend, pretend to laugh over a drink, but remember, you are the only one who has lost him now. His friends still have him. The world still has him. This is your struggle. And it is okay to fight it with tears on your throat. It does not make you weak.
The second stage is the opposite of wet. The second stage is dry. Asshole bastard motherfucking son of a bitch the second stage is angry. You will want him dead. You will want him out of sight. You will try your hardest to avoid him, and not only because you think it is better for you. It will be because you think it is better for him, better that you don’t get your hands on him. You will call your friends and tell them about his gross indifference. His nonchalance towards what you had. His dismissal of the meaning behind your love. His casualness towards the touch of your hands now. When your arm brushes his, and he does not burn, you will burn instead.
The third stage is not yours. The third stage is hers, and therefore, the third stage is empty. This boy built to rage inside you, with his aeroplane body that felt like wings, is now someone else’s and you must come to terms with watching him with her, so soon after he left the heart you gave him so willingly. You will smile at her. You will be nice to her. You will feel that he does not deserve her, that he could do better, but you will not. It is not her burden to bear, this anger, this bitterness, this hollowness inside your soul. It is his.
The fourth stage is gentle. It is unnoticed, a cat curled up in the corner of an empty door, and it comes along exactly when you need it. It is the stage of watching rainfall without memories of tears, of listening to songs that were once ruined because of his voice holding the notes to your ear, of looking at him without the sun burning your retinas, of waking up to promises to be made instead of ones that were broken. It is the stage of healing and so you will not notice it, you will not see your wounds scabbing over, but they will. It is the stage of patience. And it is what you have been waiting for without knowing it yourself.
The fifth stage is yours.