Even though I am very young, I know a lot about heartbreak.

This story is stitched together from the pieces of people’s lives, ripped pieces of well-worn quilts, threads of old memories. I am not fond of describing my own heartbreak; rather, years of being the advice girl, the therapist friend, has taught me much about others. Perhaps this is a wicked exploitation of their emotions, but every word I write about this matter is (somewhat) correct to what they are experiencing.

I can say this with confidence, because they have told me, face to face and over unstable connections, their truth, their loves, their lies.

This writing is a lot more cynical than my usual, out of respect for my own well-being. When I write, I feel every emotion with a startling, terrifying intensity- I do not wish to relive feelings I have shoved, underneath the canopy bed of my subconcious; I simply want catharsis. 

Heartbreak is strange. It is strange in the way that it can be sudden and unexpected; loud or quiet; a buildup or breaking down. There is a very possible chance that your partner feels distant, while you feel closer than ever. They bought you roses last week; why would they ever feel discontent? You see them daily, in mundane rehearsals and old cars; why would they ever want you to break apart?

Now, after they have cut their ties with you, you look at the flowers, the car you drove with them, the instrument you both played, and you only feel a searing rage; rage that they saw you as disposable, that they kissed your cheek, whispering a thousand promises; that they told you of dreams, hazy mirages of your future, one with children or career and the only stable constant within them was you. Echoes of their voice- I’ll wait for you, I love you, I love the way you touch me; play in your head, a repressed soundtrack you used to sleep to, but now only keeps you up, crying into your pillow, stained mascara, burning eyes. 

A part of you wishes to forgive them. You trace their handwriting in your notebooks, wrap your arms around yourself, a horrid mimicry. Replaying every moment in your mind, your brain constantly running in circles, what was once a talented soul now filled with terrible ruin. Memory lane is accentuated with fire, flames tickling your skin, a sickening reminder of the warmth you once felt. You try to throw the flowers in the fire, but you cannot let go. You attempt to throw the memories she gave you into the abyss- you struggle to breathe.

In the end, you must realize this. We are all stories, with pages torn out, creased, folded, loved, abused; with messy handwriting on some and picture perfect cursive on the other. Those we love fill in the gaps; our memories become new sections, our growth becomes more chapters. Sometimes, those we love destroy us, tearing out parts, pages of ourselves. And sometimes, those we love; they love us back, they love us enough, crafting new eras within our history.

History is history for a reason; we must go on. Not everyone is meant to continue within our pages, within our story, throughout our existence. Not everyone is meant to be given a place in our books. We flip through the pages of our lives with reckless abandon and intense fervor, yellow highlighter staining our hands, old pen marks decorating our fingers; we reread certain things from time to time, for the persistence of memory. 

Those we love write the hardest, leave their legacy the most. That is why it is so hard to leave them; why it is so painful to let them go.

I know a lot about heartbreak; I have overcome it, slept with it, dealt with it face to face, a constant battle I am always fighting. And yet, I do not know-nor think- that there is a solution to it; because while the saying goes love never dies, it only rests, sometimes, you wonder if love can be killed by concious choice, with awareness. 

They-whoever will be reading this, you know, deep down, who I am referencing- held your heart in their hands. Perhaps they have thrown it away, tossed it, stepped on it until it is bleeding. Maybe they dropped it with no care or tortured it to its core; whatever it is-

they have broken it.

Have they broken you?

In the sharp edges of your concrete, flowers still bloom; not the ones they gave you; rather, calla lilies grow in the roadside cracks. The fires eventually die down, still providing you warmth, but it is no longer the flames of despair. 

You go on, no matter how difficult it is.

You continue.

We all, in some ways, know a lot about heartbreak; we know it does not define us, does not mold us into a shape forever. You will inevitably read their pages again or trace the grooves of your shared love, but you will not be this way forever.

I watch this heartbreak happen. I watch some pick themselves up and move on; I see others who break down, disseminating into dust; a shell of who they once were. Throughout all of this, I think, at what point our heart fail to withstand pain? Being a spectator to these events is casually cruel, but experience is even worse-

I see all of this happening to other people. I find myself worrying if it will ever happen to me.