At the Ends of the Earth, It’s Still You

On the end, and the beginning.

I packed up my things while he was out of town one night in February. I wrapped wine glasses in old sweatshirts, leaving behind the things that were too big to carry – my old desk that had survived three Bushwick apartments, a clothing rack, and an uncomfortable metal chair.

He came home from Vermont with a black and white cookie for me, not thinking I would actually be gone. The apartment was half empty, our bedroom left with just a sheetless mattress on the dark wood floor. A museum of all the ways we went wrong.

I never thought I’d talk to him again.

We broke up slowly, a painful reckoning in which we both realized we were in over our heads. We had fallen in love and moved in together too quickly, all while entering a relationship that showed us our flaws with a 100-foot mirror. This is something they don’t tell you about meeting your match – sometimes, you’re faced with all the things you had previously packed away. I was faced with all of my flaws and a partner who begged us to work through them. I couldn’t handle it.

We would fight over nothing, running laps around each other until we were completely and utterly exhausted. I’m an admittedly stubborn person, and conceding in a relationship was totally new to me. There were so many nights I would cry myself to sleep, feeling like compromise was a mountain we would never reach the top of. I loved this person so much, but I didn’t know how to let go of my control.

Eventually, one cold winter night, I gave up. I was so tired. Tired of the friction, tired of the growth, tired of climbing the mountain. I told him I was done, and that this wasn’t the relationship for me. He reluctantly agreed, done with being the only one fighting for us, and that was that. We slept next to each other that night, a foot of mattress between us. It was hard not to feel like it was all for nothing.

After I moved out, I put my belongings in a storage container and moved back to my parent’s house with nothing but a suitcase and my dog. I joined the gym. I started therapy. I revisited things that I was hung up on. I reflected on myself more than I ever have in my life. I had slammed the door shut on our relationship, my stubbornness bleeding into my heartbreak. 

He asked to talk on the phone, to meet in person. He sent texts that scrolled on, too large to fit in a normal chat bubble. He sent a postcard from his trip to the Grand Canyon – at the ends of the earth, it’s still you, he wrote.

I didn’t answer. Cold, hard silence. No explanation for a heartbreak I didn’t quite understand myself.

I looked for apartments every single day. I emailed countless agents, asked friends if they knew anyone subletting, and scoured the internet for listings. One day, I found a tiny little studio apartment on a beautiful block in Brooklyn. I rented it sight unseen.

Living alone was always a dream of mine, a dream that isn’t afforded to many New Yorkers. But my 200 square foot apartment became my proudest accomplishment, despite barely being able to pay rent each month. This was where my healing continued.

Through therapy and being alone, I began to see where we went wrong. I was able to understand where my behaviors came from, my childhood triggers, and what was stopping me from having a true, equal partnership. 

I started thinking about Jacob more. I had a lot of regrets, and a lot of things I wanted to apologize for. 

In May I went on a work trip to Knoxville, and on our way to the hotel someone put on a Tyler Childers song. As we drove through rural Tennessee, I was reminded of what it felt like to love him. It was the first time I let myself feel the weight of missing him. The song was beautiful and painful and full of heart. It cracked me right open, my iron safe of emotions finally bleeding dry.

So if it'd make you stay
I wouldn't act so angry all the time
I wouldn't keep it all inside
And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day
So darlin', will you stay right here
And shake this frost off of my bones?

A few weeks later, as if my heartache willed him, he texted me.

It was our first, real conversation. Light, funny, slightly flirtatious. I surprised myself with how much I was leaning in, and I think I surprised him too. We ended up texting for three days straight. I was drunk off him, drunk off the conversation, and didn’t want to stop. I couldn’t stop the flood of feelings I had opened on that road in Tennessee, my love trailing 700 miles back to Brooklyn.

When he asked me to get a drink, I immediately said yes.