A few close friends have recently been through romantic break-ups, which reminded me of an unfinished piece I wrote long ago, when I was heartbroken for the second time.

To those out there going through it, I wish you honest friends, at least three good break-up albums (see the end of this piece for one of my favorites), and the kind of solitude that allows you to lean into the hard feelings, because on the other side of that confrontation is a dear friend, and that dear friend is you.

Pro-tip because nobody enjoys reading love letters in email boxes: I designed my Substack to be far more pleasant to read than this email inbox. To read via Substack, click on the above title of this piece, or the comment button, or the like button, or anywhere where the cursor becomes a little hand. If you’re tired of seeing my emails in your inbox, I totally get it—I’m tired of emails, too—so if you’re using Gmail, you can drag this into the “SOCIAL” folder so it doesn’t show up in your primaries. However you cut it, Substack writers should really be read on their individual Subtack pages for maximum pleasure)

1

You are older now, a bit wiser, and there still isn’t much time: to start new projects, to further a career you have yet to define, to write another novel.

The first night you met her, you sang a song together. You were quick to fall in love and you both sensed there wasn’t much time.

It was fresh and mesmerizing to be with someone new—was, and still is, and always will be—but that time was different. You could and still sense it.

Airplanes traversed oceans and tears traversed phone-lines. Each time you held her in your arms felt deeper than the last.

Those farewell mornings were the worst: the early-morning wake ups, the sleepy kisses on the forehead, the bleary-eyed goodbyes, the “I’ll see you soons” as she closed the door. Nothing says farewell as harshly as a 5 a.m. phone alarm, and no return is as bitter sweet as one with the next departure date.

2

But oh, to be in love! Yes, to be vulnerable. What a luxury to choose to surrender to a foreign feeling with such childlike conviction.

You’ll choose to remember how she looked in the morning making you coffee in her sweatpants in that small apartment above the quiet square. You’ll want to forget that last time she said goodbye, how you almost got into an argument trying to help her carry her bag down the stairs.

Like so many young people who lived it before you, your punch-drunk love was sobered by distance. While falling in love, you reached out for time, time to utter the words you could only utter when she was gone. Now, falling out of love, you reach out for space—space to let the empty text messages linger, two blue check marks left unchecked, an unacknowledged tightness in the chest that is oh-so-easy to revisit if you pull out that handkerchief from your sock drawer, the one she once sprayed with her perfume.

3

Swallow hard. This won’t be easy. I promise it never will be. Heed the currents of sorrow while traversing the twilight of your former self. Peer into the gloom and see what still illuminates the darkest corners. No feeling is forever. What you are feeling is the reason why books and songs are written.

Take care of the glossy photos and hold onto the trinket memories. Honor the remember-when eulogies spoken from wine-stained lips of your closest friends.

4

Oh, reckless youth! Be gone, wanton abandon! For whom will you want to make your favorite lentil stew again?

You are coming to the end now. Another page turned, another chapter begun.

You are older now, a bit wiser, but neither time nor words nor wisdom have the honor of ending love. True love waits, Thom Yorke sang, but it also lives on.

And this is what remains: a new kind of love song, which she sings alone in a new apartment. She sings it beautifully, no doubt, but her melody is no longer yours to listen.

So what of it? You will continue down the boulevard, knocking on new doors, sipping new flavors and exchanging old glances across the bar, remembering the possibility of times of yore.

Occasionally, it is certain, you will smell her familiar scent in the street; but to look over your shoulder would be foolish, for neither of you are there.

So go forth and steady your gaze, young lover, and look out towards the ever-expanding horizon. At times you will breathe deeply, and at other times you will swallow hard, but one thing is certain: love is what you miss, and so long as you believe in it, love is what you’ll find. She’ll give you reason to sing, whoever she might be. Her melody will find you again soon.

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