The last last day begins almost three years after the first.Â
It begins with me angry-crying in the Arbor bathroom, clutching my phone to my chest, holding on to the wall of the cubicle.Â
I look at the time on my phone and gave myself 3 minutes to fall apart. Iâll be back outside by 11.55.
I emerge, stare at myself in the mirror, ascertain that I look as pretty as is possible, given the circumstances, and go back out to pretend like Iâm not being repeatedly ripped asunder by lightning strikes of pain.
Why did it begin this way?
Because my ex-boyfriend, ex of only 13 hours, has just texted me casually about breakup sex, like heâs over it, like he doesnât give a fuck.Â
And Iâm suddenly back to the first last day.Â
I became familiar with the way heartbreak hurts three years ago.
When I was in love with the same boy, and he was in love with someone else (or so he told me, after every time we hooked up). I was back to feeling stupid and small for loving this person who couldnât give more than half a damn about me.
I realize that Iâm living in cycles. My life follows the same patterns. Iâm trapped in a Moebius strip of idiotic sexual and romantic decisions.Â
I became familiar with the way heartbreak hurts three years ago.
I can see myself mourning the loss of him the same way I did in 2014--shaking nightmares, waking up with tears already on my face (is there anything more pathetic and dramatic than crying in your sleep), stealing away to the office bathroom to fall apart for 3 minutes, sad music to make myself sadder, desperate battles to not pick up every sharp edge in my vicinity.
I became familiar with the way heartbreak hurts three years ago.
Wanting to call him after he has wrapped himself away from me in a soft blanket of indifference. Wanting to rip my self esteem out of my own chest and offer it to him. Wanting to scream-cry:Â âOkay, OKAY so you donât need to fall asleep to the sound of my voice anymore. Maybe that means this was meant to end. Maybe we drowned it in too many cliches, with the cigarette smoke conversations and midnight drives and stargazing. Maybe it means we sank this thing with the weight of our expectations. But you could, like, give a fuck, you know? You COULD.â
I became familiar with the way heartbreak hurts three years ago.
And of course, of course, here it is again, this grey, throbbing, dripping ache.
The last last day ends with him leaving my bed at 4 a.m. Heâs a silhouette against my moonlit window and I am half asleep. He leans over me and kisses me. I am paralysed by the depth of the nested goodbye.Â
He will leave, and leave, and leave.
There was no breakup sex. There were only breakup tears threatening at the edges of eyelids, blinked away. Only breakup smiles, rueful, dishonest.Â
He has left, and left, and left.
And I am here, crying on the end of my cigarette.Â
I became familiar with the way heartbreak hurts three years ago.
And, of course, here it is again.