I thought I would feel better by now. Not all the way better, but he’s-not-the-first-thing-I-think-of-every-morning better. I suppose that was naive. It has been a month, and I fear I am becoming boring. The florist’s worth of flowers friends sent in the early days are crisp and browning now, their stems furring with mould. I know how they feel.
They say heartbreak is like cocaine withdrawal, that it activates the same parts of your brain, and I fight not to call him for my fix. I screenshot all the “DO NOT TEXT HIM” messages I’ve received from friends, and Photoshop them into a sort of aggressive pep-talk wallpaper for my phone. This is perhaps a bit Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, and as I do it I imagine an Agatha Christie villain fashioning a ransom note from letters clipped from newspapers, but it’s effective – or, at least, it has been for the past four days. Instead I write him letters, one every day – letters I will never send, letters he will never read.
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