Heart

Wendy Moore

I experienced my first break-up when I was in 8th grade. I was sitting on a purple-checkered chair amongst the library’s shelves of tacky teen books. I was obsessed with them at that age: love triangles, vampires, laid-back misogyny, orphans. As soon as the phone buzzes, I reach for it. His contact pops up — a name surrounded by red heart emojis — on the notifications of my Android phone, my first phone. It had a rubbery, hot pink case with a holographic pop socket and a big crack running right down the center of the screen. 

I don’t remember exactly what the text said. Something along the lines of things are awkward, you’re awkward, we’re better off as friends. Very middle-school relationship. But I do remember the immediate slouch into my chair, the way my heart skipped a beat before sinking to the bottom of my stomach alongside my small intestine, my colon, and my remaining self-respect. My mom walks by to check on me, and the tears can’t help but fall. I lie and say that someone in my book just died. 

The next day at school, all of the boys in my homeroom whisper to each other when I walk in. I wonder why he had to do this; there must be a reason. Was I too forward? I go home early — I tell my teachers that I’m nauseous and I keep throwing up. I wasn’t lying. 

I swore that I’d never forget the time and date that I received my first break up text. I feel the need to apologize to my younger self for breaking my promise. I do remember that it was January and 6:19. But I can’t remember the date, no matter how hard I try. 

Nowadays, I consider my first phone to be more of a first love. 

*** 

I do not have a strong sense of self, and my first real relationship taught me this. After 3 or so years, she broke up with me on the day of my grandpa’s funeral. I cried for about ten minutes before I was overcome with joy — no more betraying close friends to appease a lover’s threats, no more late-night cries because I’m well aware that I’m unwanted, no more passive-aggressive chuckles in response to “Am I stupid? Do you think I’m stupid?” No more doing things that don’t feel like me, because I wanted so desperately to crawl into the mind of somebody else. 

I can try to blame her for everything that went wrong, but I know it’s not really her fault. I’m the one who tried to burrow my way into a life that wasn’t mine. You have to dig to do that; you have to scratch along the ridges of somebody’s brain until you can finally cut open a socket big enough to live in. It’s not a pleasant feeling, and my arms are tired from digging, reaching, and holding. 

Three days later, my dad died, and we had a second funeral to plan. Three deaths in the span of two weeks, one of them being my relationship, my first real relationship, that I’m sure was my first real love at some point. Though I can’t pinpoint when, why, or how I felt that way, or if I felt it in a way that’s correct, should there be a “correct” way to love and be loved.

My dad’s funeral was the worst day of my life. I hated everybody, including him. But I’m grateful that my ex-girlfriend left me when she did, because it would’ve made the day so much worse, having to take care of her while trying to take care of myself. 

*** 

I try to listen to sad songs when I think of my dad, but they anger me because most of them are break-up songs. I feel isolated in my grief because I realize that some of my favorite artists, some of my favorite people, have never had a real struggle. They don’t understand what it’s like to never be able to see somebody again beyond a headstone in a graveyard. 

A few months later, I decided to put my already emotionally vulnerable self on dating apps because I’ve been through the worst possible thing that anybody can go through, so an extra problem or two shouldn’t hurt. I downloaded Tinder. 

I wonder if I get attached to men faster than I get attached to women. Again, I’ve underestimated my own capacities for love and pain — the way that I grip onto somebody’s side like they’re going to fly away, the way I check my phone with every buzz. I try to play the game the right way — don’t be too enthusiastic, but don’t be too careless, either. 

I forget that men don’t do things with rhyme or reason; wedding bells and sirens are the same pitch to the untrained ear. I wonder how to make someone like me, or if there’s some type of trick or hack to doing it successfully. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. 

I wish that this was a piece about growth, but I don’t think that I’m any wiser than I was at 13 on that January evening in the library. I am still full of hope, romance, and care for another person. I still feel disappointment looming over the horizon, and I think that I’m addicted to the feeling.

Sofia Brickner & Elisabeth Kay