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"She was crazy,"
At 2:31 in the morning, the easiest thing to do is go through everything you might have done to make a situation the living hell it has become. The easiest thing to say after a breakup is, “She was crazy.” But you cannot say that at 2:31 in the morning, when nothing and everything is falling apart. Instead you’ll drastically and then after a while, methodically search Facebook for something to distract you from the terrifying thought that maybe, this time, you were the one who did something.
After the breakup has actually happened, the excuses flow wild, free, and plentiful. It was never fully your fault. It just wasn’t meant to be. She was crazy.
three minutes have passed. Facebook is getting old and you’re tired of looking at smiling faces that make the whole world seem like it has it all together. The smart statuses are becoming personal jabs and those faces seem to sneer at your predicament. You search her facebook for that rare status update that may actually contain something personal, something you could use as an excuse for whatever may be going on. Nothing. It is 2:34. No one posts at 2:34. Why should she?
That lone fear still stands still and ominous in the forefront of your mind. What if shrugging and saying, “She was crazy,” is closer than you expect? But no, you've worked out things like this before. This is a small matter compared to other times where the silence carried on for days and days. In the end it was just the excuse of needing “me time,” and everything carried on as it had before.
This is a small matter which may only need little sleep and all will be well in the light of the next day. When this has happened before, it was never anything huge. In hindsight nothing is huge. In the present it is an enormous, looming giant who is plotting your death right as these words arise in our mind. And this giant knows you think it is all your fault. It thinks it will win because you are tired of fighting with the idea that maybe there really is nothing wrong. You’ll let it win.
You restrain the urge to jump into your car and drive to her house, waking her up with your headlights in her window. The mad courage to beg for forgiveness and plead with her to tell you what you did almost causes you to leave your hovel of self pity. Instead you text her and let her know your concern. Short and sweet. vague, but to the point.
“Is there anything you want to talk about? You have seemed a little distant the past few days. It’s okay if there isn’t. I’m just thinking of you. I love you.” This text is the cure because, of course, she is lying awake, tossing and turning with anxiety over whatever is bothering the both of you.
The text is sent. There is nothing anyone can do except wait in anxious silence for her to respond. You grow tired and fall asleep, hoping for a “Oh, it was nothing! I was just tired- thinking- PMSing,” response to your worried message.
Everything will be fine. You’re scaring yourself. Everything will work out. It has to.
It is 9 a.m. The sun is shining like it does almost every morning. Another day has come and wishes you to live within its branches.
You check your phone. No response. And so you prepare yourself for another anxious day of waiting, of torturous hours of not knowing. You start rehearsing that well-known excuse for lack of anything better to think of.
“She was crazy.”
Your phone vibrates with a new message. Soaring hope fills every inch of your being. You hastily pick up your phone and unlock it with a swipe of your thumb. You then allow your finger to hover over that little red number on your messaging app. One quick tap could be the end of this agony or the beginning of a new pain. You inhale and then tap the app, bracing yourself for whatever lies inside.