Everything's Alright

On the day you break up, you'll think that everything is just fine. It's just another day in your relationship. Couples fight all the time, and words are said that never really mean anything. It's just a normal day for you. Nothing is wrong. You can go on with your life and not worry.

That's the first day.

The second day, you check your phone. No message. You think it's still okay. You think that this is an enough amount of time to wait.

On the third day, you start wondering. You check your phone again. No message. Should I start calling? Maybe not. Give them enough time and they'll break. They'll come running back to you and say they're sorry or whatever. And then you'll have the upper hand in the relationship — either you forgive them, or prolong the fight even more, if it was a fight at all, until she starts begging for you to come back.

Days go by. No text message. Not even a ring on the phone.

The panic sets in. You hesitate. Should I call? Should I send a text? What should I do? Fuck. I knew I should've texted the next day.

Maybe I should text her now.

And you do. You say sorry. You want to talk; you want her to listen.

You send a text and get no reply. The cold fingers of fear creep behind your neck, becoming this unbearable weight on your shoulders. What the fuck did I do to deserve this? Then you get mad again, sad again. Then you think that maybe they were in the shower when you sent the text. Nothing's wrong. They'll get to read the text message and send a reply. Everything's okay. She's doing something else, like house chores or her homework.

And then you realize that a few hours had gone by after you had sent the text and the real thing sets in.

The real thing, is the fear that you can't go back in time, to when you had that fight, when she told you she doesn't want you, love you, anymore, and said maybe you guys should take a break.

If you only said sorry the next day, or heck, the night of the fight, maybe this thing would be over. You won't be lying in your bed wondering or whatever. You won't get that uneasy feeling of anticipation. You wouldn't have to think anything worse anymore.

This shit could've been over.

And then she sends a text.

For a split second you hope that she's taking you back.

Nope.

She sends you something else.

"Stop bugging me."

The text messages come and they hit you in the face like a ten-wheeler truck ramming through a brick wall.

"I don't want to get texts from you anymore."

"I'm changing my number."

"It's over between us."

That's when you panic. The real panic. The panic that slowly kills you in every second that passes by, like a venomous snake bit you and nobody's around to give you an antidote. As your heart starts pumping and beating like a double-pedal drum, as your sweat turns your shirt into an old wet rag, as your shoulders begin to droop — you get that heavy feeling of heartburn like something's being pulled out of your chest and you can't help it.

That's when you start to cry.

Not the crying that you do when you watch a movie like Jerry McGuire. No. I mean the crying that makes you look stupid and ugly. The crying where all the tears start dribbling down from your cheek to your chin and neck, and snot begins to block your nasal passages. The crying that makes your eyes hurt afterwards. The crying that burns your skin, like it felt sunburn for the very first time and starts peeling and burning and hurting. The crying that kills you on the inside, like someone close to you — a family member — passed away.