Interlude: Musings of a Broken Heart in Your Late 20s

It's waking up, and checking your phone before you remember.

It's wondering if this is a stress dream.

It's knowing this pain because you've felt it before.

It's being surprised by the intensity of the hurt, despite the knowing.

It's wondering, "Will this ever get easier?"

It's making a breakup playlist that is an absolute roller coaster.

It's leaning on your friends, and feeling so lucky that they know how to help you because of all the times they've helped you before.

It's knowing you are worthy of great love.

It's an upset stomach.

It's your little sister tucking you in.

It's mourning.

It's making new routines.

It's feeling like a teenager again.

It's laughing with your friends in the kitchen.

It's a friend sleeping on your couch so you don't have to be alone.

It's completely different from the other heartbreaks, and yet it's exactly the same.

It's hour-long phone calls with the people who love you from far away.

It's a flood of memories you didn't remember remembering.

It's wanting to forget.

It's feeling heartbroken at the prospect of forgetting.

It's one of your best friends sitting next to you in bed because you just wanted someone else to exist in your space.

It's wanting a second chance.

It's knowing tomorrow a second chance might seem absurd.

It's being sure you will move on while hoping you somehow won't have to.

It's feeling your hurt because the only way out is through.

It's understanding yourself well enough to know what you need.

It's pushing yourself to eat.

It's giving yourself grace when everything is a mess.

It's hugs.

It's sharing vulnerability.

It's falling asleep to New Girl, just like you did in college.

It's hope because if each relationship has been better than the last, you can't begin to imagine what the next might hold.

It's feeling guilty for that hope.

It's playing Mario Kart with the people who will always be there.

It's people who love you being angry for you even when you aren't ready to be.

It's knowing that one day you will wake up, and just like that, the hurt will be gone.

It's longing for that day.

It's dreading that day.

It's waiting.

It's a day where you feel content followed by a day when the tears won't stop.

It's restarting therapy.

It's making new routines.

It's a list of unsent texts in your notes app.

It's wondering if there is something wrong with you for feeling this empty when you pride yourself on being independent.

It's making a new emergency contact.

It's being forced to fall in love with your life.

It's planning trips.

It's buying new bedsheets.

It's dancing.

It's laughing from your belly for the first time, and crying because you're so relieved you can still feel joy.

It's feeling like a part of you was ripped out.

It's wanting so badly to share about your day.

It's choosing yourself.

It's knowing that this pain will end because it has each time before.

It's thinking this pain will never end because this time you lost something real.

It's knowing that this pain will end because you thought you lost something real each time before.

It's feeling like no one understands you.

It's knowing your friends understand completely because you've been there for their tears.

It's picking up mugs to put in a breakup box, and four of your favorite people asking excitedly and in unison, "Is it time to break things?"

It's hiding in the bathroom at work on the days the pain builds until it's overflowing.

It's silent care rides home.

It's dreading Fridays more than Mondays.

It's filling up your social calendar.

It's rekindling friendships.

It's being proud of yourself for doing such a hard thing.

It's graditude for your relationship with yourself.

It's being brought to your knees again, but this time with confidence that you will stand back up.

It's beautiful.

It's terrible.

It's humbling.

It's all-consuming.

And one day it will be over.

But for right now, it just is.