The Emotional
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A small ritual for a very specific plot twist. The shopping list is optional; the coping is the point.
You broke up.
Acute, but survivable. The last time you felt this way you also survived, though you don’t remember that right now.
He ghosted you.
He is not dead. You checked. He posted a story at 2 p.m.
He said “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
Neither are you. Which is why you are now looking at the 45-minute drive to the nearest animal shelter, for reasons you will describe as “just to look.”
He’s “going through a lot right now.”
So are you. You’re going through a lot right now with a 1,000-piece lighthouse puzzle, in silence, like a woman in a Nancy Meyers film who owns her home outright.
He texted “u up?” at 1 a.m.
You are up. You are up making bread.
You saw he has a new girlfriend.
Fine. This is fine. You are typing “this is fine” into a search bar for some reason.
It was actually your fault this time.
You’ve done the reflecting. The reflecting is why you feel worse. He was, annoyingly, nice.
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