IAN CHUNG / DAILY NEXUS

I want my guitar back and I don’t know how to get it. 

Isn’t the saying write what you know? I think Hemingway said that. What I know is that breaking up with someone isn’t the worst feeling in the world — I think it might be the scariest. And it moves into horrifying territory when it’s done on a day defined by chocolates wrapped in shiny pink foil, red roses, heart-shaped boxes and teddy bears that say “I love you” when you squeeze them. It felt like all of the love in the world decided to play a mean trick on me: We will all come together while your love falls apart. 

My boyfriend of two years and I broke up last Valentine’s Day. If you want to be technical, we broke up two days later, but the words we knew we could never take back spilled out on that Friday designed to celebrate love. I guess we celebrated letting love go. 

For the next few sad months, snapshots of that day and the aftermath of that conversation played like an old film reel, flickering on and off every time I closed my eyes. The sepia hue that tinges old books and photographs blanketed that relationship, and with each numb day that passed, the first love that once made my cheeks hurt from smiling began to fade. 

The fear of forgetting was the hardest part. I resisted it for a really long time — I reached out after one week, thinking that was enough time to process what I felt. I think of that girl now and wish I could give her a huge hug. And then slap her across the face to wake her up. 

That first post-breakup text message was, shocker, a mistake. It spiraled into months of walks — me begging to get back together and him saying no. Me knowing that in rehashing our breakup over and over I was hurting myself and also hurting him. Me, aware of what the answer was, but still prodding anyway. It took me three months to accept the fact that I needed to let my best friend, and the person who knew me better than anyone else, go. It’s weird to think he’s almost like a stranger now. A stranger that knows everything about me. 

On the day he told me he would never change his mind about breaking up, I threw up. In front of my ex-boyfriend and by the Devereux lagoon I threw up. To anyone reading this who might also be going through a breakup, at least you didn’t throw up. And if you did, join the club. It’s really not that bad.

Lesson one: Wait more than one week to text them. I promise, the urge to tell them everything will fade. 

In my post-breakup mania, I decided to delete all forms of social media off my phone (they have, unfortunately, been redownloaded). Without the option of a TikTok doomscroll on “being friends with an ex” or “get ready with me as I tell you about my breakup,” I was forced to turn to Reddit.

Let me spare you the tears now: Do not look up anything on Reddit when you are in a fragile state. Do not turn over your burning breakup questions to everyone’s favorite “dad app.” Do not put faith in any “update” threads saying that they are either healthily best friends with their ex or they got back together. That does not apply to you. It did not apply to me, no matter how much I wanted it to. 

In retrospect, I think I sought so much advice from these Reddit strangers because they were easy to reject. When my roommates or friends or mom told me to stand strong in my breakup decision and not reach out, I felt embarrassed telling them I already texted him. I felt horrible thinking that my image as a carefree, strong young woman with a “never look back” mentality was disappearing. That I was turning into the girl who was looking back. A girl who wasn’t just looking back, but running back. The impersonality of Reddit, however, was comforting. It was safe. 

“These strangers have no idea what they are talking about,” I thought. “They don’t know my relationship.” The problem with my roommates and friends and mom was that they did know my relationship. They knew my relationship incredibly well. 

Lesson two: Don’t turn to online strangers to answer your questions. The questions don’t have an answer. 

I am an introvert by nature, though I don’t think many people know that. I like that I keep a lot of thoughts to myself; it’s a shield against anyone ever knowing too much. Perhaps an unhealthy trait, but I like how some people have even told me they were scared of me when we first met because of how little I spoke. I observe a lot more than I engage. So, putting all my feelings on display, declaring to him that I still loved him, was the most unnatural and scariest thing I have ever done. But, it’s also something that I would do again and again. I knew I wouldn’t be able to move forward without sharing how I felt, despite knowing that in doing so, I would have to forfeit my shield. 

Lesson three: No matter how scary, share your feelings. At least you won’t have regrets. You might throw up, though.

Breaking up is hard to do, as goes the old adage. Breaking up is so hard to do when there’s no anger and no yelling. And it’s even harder when the end of a relationship doesn’t crumble under lies but instead with a huge hug and an “I love you.”

I pride myself that we were mature enough to end our relationship like that — and astonished to know that I was brave enough to do it. I also pride myself on our brief attempt to be friends.

That’s the big question, isn’t it? Can you be friends with an ex-significant other? 

I wanted that to be true more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. I wanted to be told that it would be easy to turn romance into platonic love. To know that the person who knows me most at this school — who knows that I hate cheese, but I love cheeseburgers, that I have an addiction to “The New York Times” crosswords and I hate the word “ya” — would always be a leading character in my life. It was too hard for my 20-year-old brain to understand that being friends was just a way to hold on to him for a little longer. 

We actually did remain friends for a short while after we broke up. After the throwing up incident, we still had a long walk back to my house. We talked about what we thought the “great American novel” was. I said “To Kill A Mockingbird.” I think he said “Huckleberry Finn.” I don’t quite remember. What I do remember from that conversation was a window into what the next stage of our relationship would be like. It was bittersweet: just two readers talking about books like old pals.

We talked sporadically over the summer, exchanging small stories about what we were up to, mostly about what I was writing and reading and what he was exploring. We both spent some time in Berlin, not in the same period, so I gave him recommendations. It’s odd now to think that such a dreary city was one of the last things linking us together. 

And then, in November, my most dreaded thought came true: he moved on. It had been nine months; it wasn’t shocking, but I still cried. I felt replaced, a natural feeling that I’m sure most people have felt at some point in their lives. That’s when I realized us being friends was a way for me to avoid letting him go. Fighting my heart, my mind told me to tell him I needed space. And that’s what I did. I haven’t spoken to him since then.

Lesson four: “Being friends” is sometimes just a way to prolong the inevitable loss of someone who was once the most special person in your life. 

People put too much pressure on being in love. I think we should just put pressure on love. Because losing the feeling of being “in love” forced me to realize how much platonic love is in my life. My roommates cooked for me when they saw I was too sad to eat. My best friend laid in my bed while I cried so hard I was shaking. Another laid flowers on my bed when I was out, a small gesture that told me she was there to listen. I sought refuge in the Daily Nexus office, spending longer than usual laughing with my co-editors and surrounding myself with stacks of newspapers: my favorite thing. My little brother sent me music recommendations and my sister, who never expresses emotion, sent me a nice text. My mom sat on the phone every day for hours on end, just listening. She still does that. 

This was my first real breakup. It was the first time I was in love and the first time I got my heart broken. And it happened on only my second Valentine’s Day. For a long time, it seemed like the days only got sadder as I moved further away from my first serious boyfriend. In a screwed up way, I wanted those horrible and sad days to last longer and time to stand still. Then I wouldn’t be so far from that girl who used to be in love. The days only get happier now, one year out.

Lesson five: Being in love isn’t everything. Being surrounded by love, though, is.

I cried a lot writing this article, forcing myself to put into words something I haven’t been able to understand. I know I didn’t offer anything different that Jane Austen, bell hooks or Dolly Alderton already have, but I hope that for anyone who went through the same thing, you know you will be more than okay. The great authors and books that are stacked high on my shelves, threatening to topple over and make me the next Flat Stanley, also write to make sense of the world. Perhaps on a much larger scale than my silly college breakup, but writing as the answer nonetheless. And the musicians too. It really does help to drive circles around LAX playing Olivia Rodrigo’s “driver’s license” on repeat while bawling your eyes out. The comfort I once got from the Reddit strangers I now get from them. 

If I lived in one thousand different universes with an infinite number of storylines, I would choose this one every time. All of the good and all of the bad led me here: a girl who wakes up, grabs her cup of coffee and stands on her deck, staring out at the huge ocean knowing that that is exactly what her future looks like. I stood strong and now don’t have to worry about subconsciously editing my dreams to fit another person. And I am so thankful for it. 

But sometimes, I still wonder if he uses my guitar to record his new songs. 

Stella Mullin used to believe Tom was right in “500 Days of Summer.” Now she agrees with Summer.