Tag: breakups

  • The Spider in the Bathtub: A Story About Goodbyes

    It was almost a year ago.
    A spider accidentally drowned in the bathtub.
    Not a metaphor. Not a symbol. A real spider.
    Small, delicate, curled in on itself. Its little body in the water puddle.
    I picked it up gently and laid it out on the coffee table, hoping maybe it was just stunned. Maybe it needed to dry.
    Maybe it would wake up.

    I left the room for a moment.
    When I came back, the spider was gone, thrown away.
    No ceremony. No goodbye.

    I felt the kind of grief that punches through logic. The kind that makes no sense to the people around you. The kind you can’t explain. I know because I had tears in my eyes when he said he threw it out, the kind of tears he could not relate to and didn’t even take seriously.

    But I knew this wasn’t just about a spider.

    Because I’m still not over it. After almost a year.

    This was about every goodbye I never got to say; laid in front of my eyes in the form of a bathroom spidey I had formed a mild emotional attachment to, whose accidental death was my fault, and it was thrown out by the person I loved.

    In my life, people leave.
    Not dramatically. Not loudly.
    Just… suddenly. Quietly. When I’m not looking.

    Loved ones pass away when I’m away.
    Breakups happen over the phone.
    Pets are gone when I’m away.
    Endings, real ones, never seem to happen face to face.

    There are no doors closing. No farewell hugs.
    Just empty space. A sudden absence. A vacuum that no one acknowledges.

    So I carry them.
    All of them.
    Inside.

    That spider cracked something open in me.

    Because I wanted to sit beside it.
    Watch. Wait. Witness.
    And if it didn’t come back, I wanted to give it a good goodbye.
    A sacred one.
    Even if it was “just” a spider.

    But I wasn’t given that chance.

    And that’s been the theme.
    The life pattern. The grief blueprint.

    “I wasn’t given that chance.”

    What do you do when life refuses to give you closure?

    You get it in your dreams at night.

    You get it in the wind that makes you remember a certain moment in your life.

    You get it by making new memories by yourself in the places you used to go together. In the streets you laughed, kissed, argued… Lived life. Even briefly.

  • We Broke Up, But Why Did We Also Break Apart?

    on post-breakup territory wars and becoming strangers with people we once undressed our souls with

    No one warns you about the silent custody agreement after a breakup.

    You get your side of the city. I get mine.

    You get the bar near your place. I’ll avoid it like it’s cursed.

    I get the bookstore downtown, but only before 2PM, because I know that’s when you usually go.

    The mutual cafe? Dead to both of us.

    We don’t talk about it, but we feel it.

    And suddenly, we’ve turned a love story into a war over real estate.

    We used to walk these streets like we were creating a world together. Now we’re living in the ruins, divided like ex-nations.

    There’s no judge or jury…

    But somehow, we both know which cafés are now forbidden, which parks are now sacred, and whose friends are no longer “neutral ground.”

    And I can’t help but wonder why does a breakup have to mean a complete delete of the non-romantic parts of a connection?

    We weren’t just lovers. We were people.

    Friends, even.

    We shared music, dumb jokes, late-night thoughts about the meaning of life.

    We sat on balconies and talked about our parents.

    We slow-danced in kitchens.

    We cried. We laughed.

    We knew each other.

    So why is it that, after it ends, we’re supposed to act like we never existed?

    Why is “just friends” seen as a downgrade, not a grace?

    Why do their friends have to stop being our friends?

    Why is it suddenly “too weird” to say hi without pretending like the past didn’t happen?

    Why does the end of romance mean the end of all relating?

    Maybe it’s ego.

    Maybe it’s pain.

    Maybe it’s our culture telling us to “cut the cord” and never look back.

    But maybe, just maybe, we’ve forgotten how to hold space for nuance.

    Maybe two people can love each other deeply, part ways honestly, and still care, without it being “messy.”

    Maybe it’s possible to outgrow the role without erasing the person.

    To say:

    “I no longer want you as my partner, but I still respect who you are.”

    “I won’t be at your birthday party, but I hope someone brings your favorite cake.”

    “I’m not yours anymore, but I hope you’re happy.”

    “I’m moving on, but I remember us fondly.”

    We don’t have to vanish from each other’s lives like ghosts.

    We don’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.

    It did.

    It just doesn’t anymore.

    And maybe that’s okay.