The way it should be

Feels a lot like realizing the moon never shone for you. Like getting on a train and disappearing, only to surface again days later with no idea of where you are or why. Like being the only one not crying at a funeral. Like a fork in the toaster or a mermaid on dry land. Like waking up empty with no way to refill.

And you refuse to believe that the world would do this to you, that you exist in some universe where on some godforsaken tiny planet, the two of you didn’t work out. You want to sink deep into the core of that planet and melt away into its molten darkness, you want to be buried six feet under.

But the truth is you’re still several feet above and you have to make do. And you think about falling and you think about drowning, but remember how when birds are born, a fall means a chance to learn how to fly in midair. Sometimes you learn how to fly on the way down.

But sometimes you learn how to fly and then gradually you forget again. You go back to his voice, you listen to the voicemails he left on your phone, you save the chopsticks from the takeout you ate together, you taste the rain like it contains his own mouth. You leave the lights on. You leave the welcome mat out. You leave the curtains open.

But a psychologist once found that two strangers can fall in love with one another after only thirty minutes, after simply asking one another questions about their lives.