July 25th, 2021
I feel like I am floating after this untethering. Like a balloon headed for the clouds, in that dually melancholy and pleasing way. After this life change, I was expecting my reality to crash around me. This not-quite painful floating sensation has taken me off guard. Losing love is a funny thing.
Losing love is a funny thing.
I sit in the car in his driveway and tap my homescreen on my phone to re-read the inspirational quote I had made my wallpaper in preparation for this moment. “You are being presented with a choice, evolve or remain—” and then the rest is cut off as my attention turns to the opening passenger side door, and he gets in. One look at each other, the nervous resignation of two people who realize they are about to turn a page—gets us laughing. And then laughter turns to tears and tears to laughter. The cycle proves a reminder of why this all began, because before and after and amongst the love there was friendship. Friendship—the one thing strong enough to make the teary eyes of your now-ex lover seem slightly funny, in a “life is so weird” sort of way.
This morning my phone vibrates constantly. Friends checking in, “How did it go?,” “How do you feel?”
“It went surprisingly well”, “I feel...untethered?”
I wish I was a bright pink balloon right now, so that I could wallow in the freedom of my new-found solitude and not have to remember how I watched him leave my car.
This morning I am not doing my work. My virtual internship can wait. This morning I am trying to understand how I can say goodbye to my best friend and lover of three years and not be on the floor with my heart scattered around me. Last night after the farewell, I sat in the kitchen of my childhood home with my mom and my best friend. They looked at me with wary expectation. They were waiting to console the inconsolable. I couldn’t give them that—I was too far in the air already, floating. Losing love is a funny thing.
I think if I was a balloon floating through the sky I would be bright pink because that's the color of my painted toenails and the color of my favorite bathing suit. I wish I was a bright pink balloon right now, so that I could wallow in the freedom of my new-found solitude and not have to remember how I watched him leave my car. And how in the rearview mirror I saw him struggle to open his front door, since his arms were full of his things that for so long had been my things. His effort to open the door with no hands made me smile. But as I drove out of the driveway, the smile turned to a sob that had been stuck in my throat.
And then I turned my headlights on, took a deep breath, and I wondered—just like I’m wondering now—what I could be floating towards.
