The First 9 Days After The Breakup


“It’ll never happen to us.” That is what you think now holding the hand of that special other. Well, let me tell you something: it CAN happen! So appreciate what you have NOW, grow up NOW, figure out what you need to figure out NOW, and always kiss as if it would be the last kiss. Because you just never know…


I knew it was over because I dreamt about ballet. That is my returning dream when things change. Yesterday night, I woke up from a nightmare. I had a blackout on the stage during Swan Lake. It was 1 AM. Wednesday. I knew it was over. I knew it was over because you said so. I knew it was over because I haven’t dreamt of ballet for six years. I haven’t dreamt of ballet since the first night I spent with you. And now, I couldn’t breathe. The only thing that reminded me that I was alive was the creaking of the N train. It was dark. It was raining. It was a well-crafted movie shot. “Great!” I thought “Now, you’ve got it. You got your drama. Are you happy?” The N train left. And with that, my last six years left as well. I still couldn’t breathe. I wanted to call you. To tell you: you motherfucker, I loved you!

The last time I kissed you was on Tuesday. Tuesday 3.20 PM. Central Time. It was ten weeks ago. The only thing I can think of now is that you knew that. You planned it. You wanted it it to be the last one. Tell me, did you know it was the last one? I didn’t. If I did, I would be still kissing you. It was sunny. We had a plan. You were supposed to fly back in five weeks. I kissed you for five weeks. Not for ten. Not for twenty. But surely, I didn’t kiss you for the last time. Or did I? I mean, yes, it was the last one, you made it clear now. I could scream, kill you and kiss you at the same time. The guy in front me is flirting with me. And I could scream, kill him and kiss him at the same time. Did you know it was the last one?


I blocked you. I blocked you on Facebook. This was my revenge. I blocked you on Wednesday. I unblocked you on Thursday. I just missed you too much. Not that you would care. Or do you? I unblocked you because I wanted to be able to type in your name and still find you if I want. You changed your profile picture. How childish. I changed mine, too. I took that picture of you. That is why I blocked you. Because you were mine in that picture. I just could not look at you. But then, today, I wanted to look at you again. Today is Thursday. I looked at you for six years. I could not look at you for one day. But today, today, can I please look at you again?

The future seems so intimidating. Does it for you, too? No, I guess, not for you. You are 80% rational, 20% feeling. These are your numbers. Not mine. You spelled them out to me when I last asked: “But do you still want to hug me?” Those numbers were your answer. What the fuck happened to you, really? Since when do we talk in numbers between us. I asked if you still wanted to hug me? If you were in pain if you imagined your future without me? If seeing me with someone else scares you? And fuck, you give me numbers. I can’t deal with numbers. I hate numbers. Six was my favorite number, you know. Now, I hate that, too.


The future teller told it so. Two years ago. Remember? We had falafel and hummus somewhere around the 23rd Street. I was reaching for your hand. You touched mine. And I know we both were thinking the same: “it still fits perfectly.” She told me I should leave you. You are blocking me. Yes, this is what she said. You are blocking me. I cried so hard. She gave me a tissue. I took three more. I had five flights to walk down. Alone. Then I saw you. “She told me to leave you” I said. I loved how fucking honest I could be with you. “And will you?” You asked. No, “until this fits perfectly.” I reached for your hand. You touched mine. It fit.

I have two pillows. I am not a pillow person. I am fine without them. You loved them. You would create a whole mountain out of them so that you were almost sitting. What a weird way of sleeping. So I started to fix you before you would fall asleep. It became our thing. You know…our thing. When there was a we. I made sure you only have one flat pillow. “It’s not healthy for you.” I did this for six years. Every damn night. And you got mad each and every night. But you were not really mad. Not in those moments. You loved it. I sleep with two pillows now. But I can’t sleep, they are too high…I wish you would see how unhealthy I sleep now.


What if I die during the night? Geez, really. I was sleeping so well for the last six years. And now? Nightmares. Every fucking night. It’s because of you! Take responsibility for this at least. Man-up! Last night as I was staring at the N train passing again, I got so scared. You know, I got so scared because I thought: “will anyone notice if I die during the night?” Don’t get me wrong, there are many people who will. Eventually. But what about the mornings? It was you, who made sure I was alive. And now? Now, you don’t want to make that sure anymore. You did write me a message. I can see that on my phone. I wish it would say what I want to hear. But I know it doesn’t. And I can’t read it. It’ll just fucking hurt. Again. And it’s only 7 AM. I have a life to run, you know?


This fucking distance…is a blessing! If I were closer to you, like really close to you, I would cry until you hugged me again. Not to get you back. No, I am OK. Or I’ll be OK. I ran after you enough. And I wish you would be the one running after me now. But I still want your hug. It calms me, it always did. The first time I wanted to go under your skin because no closeness was enough was when you said your mother died when you were young. It was dark. We were lying on your bed after our fifth date. Or maybe sixth. You didn’t see, but I was crying. I promised that I’ll never leave you. Fucking promises. Look what happened to them.

I’m trying to be aware. Aware of my breathing. Aware of my feelings. I’m a new age girl. I do yoga, I meditate, I eat avocado. I say sorry, I accept sorry-s. I give second chances. Because we all fuck up something. So who am I not to give out another chances? You fucked up so many things. Really. Six years are long enough to fuck up so many things. I wanted to leave you. Not once. But I knew that you were trying. You started to become aware too. I loved that. I loved you. I was aware of you.


But what about our babies? You wanted three. Because that is what you had as a kid. I wanted two. At tops. Because it is my body. Because my mom almost died when I was born. I still feel that. You wanted them since the first day we met. I was too young. I was too scared. You said, “there is no pressure.” But pressure was all I felt. I loved you. I wanted to give them to you. We agreed on one. Yes, we finally agreed on one as we laughed and walked through Battery Park in that heated summer night. I was ready. I was ready now. “You don’t want kids anyway, I can’t wait more,” you wrote the other night from that expanding distance between us. But I was ready. But I was ready now. What the fuck is wrong with you?

I think I’m fine. Like every second hour I find a few minutes when I think I’m fine. Like yesterday. It was Sunday. A week after the…you know, the break…up. So yes, yesterday, I was fine. I even found the desire to make order in my flat. Take down the trash after a week, collect my clothes from the week, do laundry. Yes, I even did laundry. What a fucking big mistake. Your T-shirt. That blue one. With your smell on it. I wasn’t fine anymore…


I almost choked. Not kidding. I dreamt that you were taking a train. Alone. You asked me not to go with you. I asked “but how can you leave so easily?” You didn’t answer. I cried. I cried so hard as I saw you fading away. You never even take a train. I thought. Then I looked at the clock. It was 3 AM. And now I was awake. Crying the same way. Almost choking. Cried until 4 AM. Then I know I shouldn’t have but I sent a message to you: “Does it hurt you, too?”


I should quit coffee. Or at least go decaf. But that little corner, by the window…that gives me the safe place now. And he, who cares. He, who didn’t only learn the way I like my coffee, but also learned how to help me without actually knowing that he is helping. We grow together. As people. As two parallel lives. Since I moved to Long Island City, he has been part of my days. Every day. Except for the weekends. He isn’t working on the weekends. He saw you many times when you came to visit. He wasn’t sure what’s the deal between us. And now, I am not sure either. What was the deal with us? Did we have a deal at all? I really should go decaf; these thoughts make my heart race…time will heal, they say. Bullshit! I think I should just go decaf.

I’m over you. I’m over you because I can’t eat ice-cream. When I broke up with my ex, well, now you are the ex. So when I broke up with my ex-ex, I had tons of ice-cream. I had salted caramel, then strawberry cheesecake right after it. I spent hundreds of dollars on ice-cream. And tissue. But I knew I was not over him because of the ice-cream. I bought ice-cream today. It is in my fridge. I bought strawberry cheesecake. But I can’t eat it. I opened a beer instead. Then I opened a second one. And now, I am lying on my bed. In your T-shirt. I’m over you.


“So what’s the conclusion?” You asked after that 2-hour-long WhatsApp call. What is the right answer for this? That buy your ticket and come to NYC to hug me? That if you consider us an option, just let’s forget this call has ever happened? That if we still have feelings, let’s find the way? That we went through so much during the six years that we are irreparable? I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I know that these two hours were the best hours of my last week. “I think, we should meet!” I whispered. “OK!” You whispered back.