"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.
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