(inspired by an upcoming Readers Write subject for The SUN Magazine.)
The first few weeks after we broke up I dropped my phone constantly. A gift from him, the act of accidentally letting it slip (hard, smooth case; forgetful mind) from my hands came to represent how I'd accidentally severed the threads of our relationship.
Not my first love, granted, but my first boyfriend, the first who loved me back. The first who loved me back at a time in life when forever was almost possible, but still not quite.
We broke up during a phone call; I overestimated my understanding of him and the strength of our relationship. As we spoke, I could feel things spiraling out of control, but, passive, I did nothing to steer the conversation in any direction. I spilled too many awkward honesties at once using language unfamiliar to me ("I'd like to date other people", "we're going too fast", "but I still want to be your friend") In my rush to be honest, I forgot to be considerate, compassionate, and thoughtful; I forgot to weigh the possible meaning of what I said. There was a fatal flaw in creating girls' minds so different from boys' minds. To him, all of these phrases meant rejection and replacement.
I came to think of that phone call as a sort of clumsy but earnest flailing that ended much differently than I'd intended, but not enough differently for me to take possession of what was slipping past me.
I haven't really regretted breaking up, but I have regretted the circumstances, I feel that I could have done much better with my timing and communication. The past is only the past, though, and maybe someday we can look back on it all as good friends once again, but not, as he says, right now.
It's hard not to sound melancholic, when writing about this, I mean, a metaphor involving a phone given me by my first boyfriend? Cheesy, I'm sure. But I've come back to drafting this narrative in my head many times since that long, gray month.
I continued living. It wasn't like life ever stopped. Over time I managed to stop dropping my phone so frequently. I still have it, and in the ups and down since, I'll drop it increasingly over the course of a week, and struck by the poignance of it- (we'll have spoken in slightly unfriendly terms to one another, or I will feel neglected as a friend)- I will work to master my hands and my feelings once again and do my best not to just throw the whole thing at the wall, smashing it to pieces.
The first few weeks after we broke up I dropped my phone constantly. A gift from him, the act of accidentally letting it slip (hard, smooth case; forgetful mind) from my hands came to represent how I'd accidentally severed the threads of our relationship.
Not my first love, granted, but my first boyfriend, the first who loved me back. The first who loved me back at a time in life when forever was almost possible, but still not quite.
We broke up during a phone call; I overestimated my understanding of him and the strength of our relationship. As we spoke, I could feel things spiraling out of control, but, passive, I did nothing to steer the conversation in any direction. I spilled too many awkward honesties at once using language unfamiliar to me ("I'd like to date other people", "we're going too fast", "but I still want to be your friend") In my rush to be honest, I forgot to be considerate, compassionate, and thoughtful; I forgot to weigh the possible meaning of what I said. There was a fatal flaw in creating girls' minds so different from boys' minds. To him, all of these phrases meant rejection and replacement.
I came to think of that phone call as a sort of clumsy but earnest flailing that ended much differently than I'd intended, but not enough differently for me to take possession of what was slipping past me.
I haven't really regretted breaking up, but I have regretted the circumstances, I feel that I could have done much better with my timing and communication. The past is only the past, though, and maybe someday we can look back on it all as good friends once again, but not, as he says, right now.
It's hard not to sound melancholic, when writing about this, I mean, a metaphor involving a phone given me by my first boyfriend? Cheesy, I'm sure. But I've come back to drafting this narrative in my head many times since that long, gray month.
I continued living. It wasn't like life ever stopped. Over time I managed to stop dropping my phone so frequently. I still have it, and in the ups and down since, I'll drop it increasingly over the course of a week, and struck by the poignance of it- (we'll have spoken in slightly unfriendly terms to one another, or I will feel neglected as a friend)- I will work to master my hands and my feelings once again and do my best not to just throw the whole thing at the wall, smashing it to pieces.
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