Light

Last night, I put off going to bed for as long as I could, hanging out with my best friend until the wee hours, dreading the time when he would walk out the door and I would be alone with my pain. After he left, I walked through the apartment. I turned off the music, put away our wine glasses and flicked off the lights. At first, I was afraid of the dark and the quiet. But as I stood in my silent, unlit living room, I realized that, in the dark and the quiet, there is loneliness. But there is also peace.

I got into bed and waited, waited for the pain to descend and bring with it racing thoughts, racking sobs and sleeplessness. Instead, on day three of my breakup, I slipped peacefully into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke feeling rested, motivated and, yes, even a little excited. I decided that if the apartment was dredging up too many memories, I would make it my own. I would rearrange the furniture, redecorate, clean, paint and change whatever I wanted without anyone else's input.

But first, I decided to walk to the farmer's market to get ingredients for the dinner I would make for myself and my best friend. I love the farmer's market but hadn't been in a long time because Dave seldom woke up early enough to get there before it closed at 3 p.m. and, inexplicably, I wouldn't go without him. 

As I walked, enjoying the cool fall air, I glanced down at my phone and realized that, though it was only mid-morning, no less than five people had reached out to me to check in, make sure I'm okay and see if I wanted to talk. By the afternoon, it was eight people.

I feel overwhelming gratitude and love for my support system. But I also feel pride in myself for having cultivated such close bonds. And, although I am not one to give advice, I will say this: Be a careful, meticulous and steadfast friend, even - no, especially - when you are in an intimate relationship. Make plans, stay in touch, see your friends and family by yourself, without your partner tagging along. Because no matter how loving, perfect and secure your love life seems, there is a strong likelihood that your friends will be around long after your partner is gone. Prove to them that you are worth sticking around for.

Empty

When I said I wanted to keep the apartment, he told me that he wouldn't have it any other way, as I knew he would. I got to keep our - no, my - spacious one-bedroom in upper Manhattan while he'd likely move into a cramped room in someone else's place.

There were no arguments about stuff. It went without saying that he would take only what belonged to him. He offered to leave me his expensive speakers because the sound system, he said, was perfect as is. He remained gracious, kind and generous. He paid for the next month's rent in full, bought a ton of food for our - no, my - cats and cleaned the kitchen.

I thought I was lucky. I got to keep the apartment, live there rent-free for a month. I was thankful to have avoided the ugly fights that some couples have as they attempt to divide their unity in two. 

I thought I was lucky until I returned home after he moved out. As I walked up the block, I had a sinking feeling, a realization. By the time I got to the door, I could not breath. And as I entered the apartment, I knew that, without question, I was not the lucky one.

The apartment was devoid of his things but full of his memory. Everywhere I looked, there he was. I sunk into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at the space across from me where he used to sit. I pictured him eating meals I'd cooked, laughing, listening to music. I opened a closet and there was an empty shelf where his clothing once was. I could see his pants, neatly folded, and how he looked when he wore them. I glanced over at the bed, now with only one pillow, and I willed myself not to think of that bed any further. I walked around the living room and gazed at furniture that he built, saw the couch where we cuddled and where we broke up. His desk, now mine, sat empty. We shared everything and I felt ownership of nothing.

I could not rest my eyes anywhere without feeling immense, unyielding pain. My instinct was to flee, to leave and never return. But I have nowhere else to go. So I closed my eyes, amongst the things and memories of things, and I cried.

The Beginning

"It's easier to see the beginnings of things and harder to see the ends." I mulled over Joan Didion's words as I sat with Dave, my boyfriend of five years. He was looking down at his plate, eating the steak I had just overcooked. I stared blankly at the table, knowing that this meal was our last together.

After dinner, we went into the living room and sat on the couch we bought years before. The couch we had cuddled on countless times. The couch we sat on as we listening to music, laughed, told stories, joked. And, later, the couch we argued on. The couch he slept on instead of coming to bed. The couch where I sat, paralyzed, for hours, wondering what had become of us.

He broke up with me softly, kindly, gently, the only way someone like Dave could. He cried as I sat, frozen, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Carefully, I drained myself of emotion, wrung it out, because I knew that if I started crying, I would never stop. I knew that it was only temporary - the calm before the storm - but I bought myself a few hours of what appeared to be sanity.

It lasted until I had to go to bed and realized that, never again, would Dave come in to make sure the covers were pulled up to my chin. Never again would he turn the light out and kiss my forehead. Never again would we fall asleep holding hands. Never again would I feel his warm body next to mine. And I cried. I'll spare you the details of how loud, hard and ravaging my cries were. I cried.

The next morning, I learned that you can, in fact, wake up sobbing.

Thus was the beginning of my new life.