The Underestimated Power of Swipes

"So that's it? We're just going to end it here?" My voice was inadvertently getting louder and louder, but I just couldn't believe what I was hearing. We always worked through our rough patches, no matter how difficult or how long it took.

"Neither of us are getting what we want from the relationship. And I don't think we're right for each other," he said, his eyes staring off at something beyond my left shoulder. 

"But I can change! Just tell me what you want. Please? I promise I'll work harder, I just need you to tell me what you want," I practically begged. I wanted to say more but I bit my lip, tilting my head back slightly and blinking rapidly to keep my tears from dripping down my cheeks. He was only gaining resolve to break up with me every time he spoke and I could feel him slipping further and further out of my reach. 

"I don't––I don't know. I'm sorry I'm not really expressing myself too well right now. I'll write something for you later." He looked down at his hands as I scrutinized his face, trying unsuccessfully to find any trace of uncertainty or even regret. "Yeah, I'll write you a letter explaining how I feel."

A heavy, almost palpable silence settled on us. I watched his eyes flit from the ground to whatever it was he kept looking at over my left shoulder, up to the sky, and back down towards his hands. Yet he still refused to meet my eyes.

_____

The stifling blanket of silence that smothered the end of our relationship remained the entirety of the summer. At first I found myself repeatedly googling "stages of grief", trying to make sense of the ever-changing torrents of emotion that drowned my waking moments. Then I'd obsessively check my email to see if he'd finally gotten around to writing me the letter he'd mentioned, only to slam my laptop shut in disappointment. Over the past 33 months, he had assumed the central role in my emotional universe, around which all my other relationships and interests orbited. With the stabilizing force ripped from my life, everything else spun off their usual trajectories and all that remained was an inconsolable hollowness. I'd never felt so infuriated and betrayed, and I grew increasingly certain that I would never be loved by anyone again. 

I didn't realize how many memories I had created with him until I struggled to find anything that didn't remind me of some moment we had together. Every time I went for a walk by the river, watched The Office, or even answered a FaceTime call, I ached for his spindly yet strong arms to wrap around me and to inhale his scent of freshly laundered clothes. I often wondered if he ever missed the times when even just the sight of each other would stretch our lips into wide grins and the air between us would bristle with a yearning to touch whenever we weren't already snuggled together.

Even without a physical presence in my life, he managed to exert remarkable dominance over my emotional state. I couldn't forgive him for giving up on me and not following through with the letter, yet I still marveled at the diversity of experiences we'd shared and captured on my phone's camera roll. Above all, I thirsted to do something, anything, to make him regret leaving me. 

But I also discovered that the human mind has an incredible capacity to heal emotional wounds, and eventually, the deluge of misery subsided into a trickle. Day by day, I pieced back together parts of my existence, reconfiguring them to remove any associations with him. Each time I opened my email inbox, my hope that I'd find some explanation from him receded, until it was insignificant enough to fold up and tuck away into an irretrievable shelf in the recesses of my mind. I created new memories to fill the cavities he'd left behind, and after three blurred months, I could go days without succumbing to the dreary grip of my emotions.

_____

On the last Sunday of August, I stumbled towards my desk to turn off the alarm on my phone and was about to flop back down on my bed for an extra hour of sleep when I saw a text that made me rub my eyes and fumble around for my glasses: "Madi, I want to check in to ask how your summer's been. Did you end up starting that new job? How have you been managing with all the wildfires?"

He'd always been a stickler for proper grammar and spelling even in texts, but the level of formality in this message took me by surprise. The text felt so barren without any endearing nicknames or "love you"s to soften his full, proper sentences. I stared at the notification bubble, hesitant to open my message app, as my recently buried rage started gurgling deep inside me and seeping towards my head.

I forced myself to put my phone down before I did anything rash and went through my usual morning routine. I somehow got through my usual workout and even ate breakfast with my roommates without another peek at the message. But when I sat down at my desk to get some work done, I couldn't ignore the temptation any longer. I picked up my phone, and stared some more at the notification until I worked up the courage and clarity of mind to open the text. 

My thoughts vacillated rapidly between shooting off a cathartic "Fuck off" and replying with a significantly more congenial "It's been alright, what about you?" I wanted to scream loud enough for him to hear me from across the river on the other end of the city. How could he think he could just waltz back into my life and knock astray my painstakingly reconstructed social universe? After leaving me hanging onto the flimsy thread of hope that I'd be receiving a note from him with some explanation for the devastation he had wreaked on my life? A thread that he'd neglected, left to be battered and ultimately broken in the storms that brewed in his wake?

But then I surprised myself and the two voices arguing in my head.

I deleted his message.

Then I deleted his contact from my phone.

A rush of relief burst through my veins. Never before had a few barely perceptible swipes of my finger felt so empowering. I simply refused to let him shatter my hard-earned emotional stability so casually. As I put my phone facedown on the corner of my desk, the corners of my lips curved the tiniest bit upwards. Maybe one day I'll be able to dig up his number and reciprocate his weak offer to resume acquaintanceship without any urges to hurl my phone across the room. But for now, I thought to myself, I'm reclaiming my emotions and living my life on my terms.