I am friends with some of my exes. Some, not so much. You never picture the end at the beginning and if you did, well, I doubt you’d start anything. I’ve only ever had one ex boyfriend whose break up deeply affected me. When we ended I was still very dearly in love with him but I knew it could never ever work. Instead I turned into a crazy lovesick person who couldn’t eat or sleep, checked Facebook obsessively and wept quietly on public transport.
The world became a muted tone of grey and I sought solace beneath an excess of duvet covers and flannel pajamas, scrunching my face in despair and wishing things were otherwise. I started going to bed at 7.30pm, compiled mournful emotional playlists and stopped washing my hair.
The thing is, I didn’t want to get over him. I didn’t want things to become easier. He was the only person I had ever felt slightly in awe of. Friends urged me to see the light and look beyond him, to see life after heartbreak. But that would be an even greater tragedy because I’d have to admit it was over. I turned away from sympathetic looks and well intentioned cups of tea. Instead I retreated deeper into my world of denial, dreaming of him, thinking of ways we could meet again, concocting bogus reasons to ring him and remembering the times we had. I clung to my sadness because if I let go of mourning I would let go of everything we had.
I still think about him sometimes, that one person who was capable of breaking my heart. He wasn’t a bad person, he just failed to feel something that I felt. We were looking for different things in each other and it floundered miserably. In hindsight I know he wasn’t as amazing as I imagined him to be and I only say this because I thought he was, quite literally, perfect.
It may be one of the greatest tragedies, unrequited love. Hindsight has taught me I can always come out the other side and that makes me feel bolder. The heart may be a little wary, wrapped tentatively in cotton wool, but beneath its protective layers it is ready to risk consuming undeniable heartbreak all over again if there is a shot at love.
The world became a muted tone of grey and I sought solace beneath an excess of duvet covers and flannel pajamas, scrunching my face in despair and wishing things were otherwise. I started going to bed at 7.30pm, compiled mournful emotional playlists and stopped washing my hair.
The thing is, I didn’t want to get over him. I didn’t want things to become easier. He was the only person I had ever felt slightly in awe of. Friends urged me to see the light and look beyond him, to see life after heartbreak. But that would be an even greater tragedy because I’d have to admit it was over. I turned away from sympathetic looks and well intentioned cups of tea. Instead I retreated deeper into my world of denial, dreaming of him, thinking of ways we could meet again, concocting bogus reasons to ring him and remembering the times we had. I clung to my sadness because if I let go of mourning I would let go of everything we had.
I still think about him sometimes, that one person who was capable of breaking my heart. He wasn’t a bad person, he just failed to feel something that I felt. We were looking for different things in each other and it floundered miserably. In hindsight I know he wasn’t as amazing as I imagined him to be and I only say this because I thought he was, quite literally, perfect.
It may be one of the greatest tragedies, unrequited love. Hindsight has taught me I can always come out the other side and that makes me feel bolder. The heart may be a little wary, wrapped tentatively in cotton wool, but beneath its protective layers it is ready to risk consuming undeniable heartbreak all over again if there is a shot at love.
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