Romance, Redacted

Some relationships burn bright at first, but eventually flicker out. When they do, someone’s always left to sweep up the ashes. That person is usually me. At least I've gotten some great writing inspiration out of it.

I've been careless with my heart over the last few years. Some connections, I genuinely believed would last forever. Others, I was content with a second of their time. Each time a door slammed shut, I sat down at my desk. Occasionally I cried. And then I started to write.

1.) The First Ending

She was my best friend in high school. It's a messy haze of memories now; laughing together until three in the morning, whispered fantasies about running away to New York City, story ideas and inside jokes. I'd never written with another person before, and it felt more intimate than a physical touch.

Despite all of my promises, I knew I wouldn't be able to make it last. I cut ties in a blind panic. As the years passed, I realized I was impulsive -- scared of my own heart. I didn’t trust myself to hold on to something good. I’ve seen the lesson. I just don’t think I’ve learned it yet. I hope I do someday.

When it ended, it ended. My first relationship, and it was over, just like that. I remember crying so hard it felt like my lungs had collapsed. Nothing feels like your first heartbreak, even when the wound is self-inflicted.

Then I learned how to write on my own.

I started my English degree a few months later. Sometimes it felt like there was a phantom hand alongside my own; matching strokes across the keyboard for each assignment. But it was just me. Over time, I learned to be okay with that.

I'm lucky to say that she's still one of my best friends.

bellagio conservatory & botanical gardens

2.) The (Pointless) Slow Burn

I was eighteen when we met; starry-eyed, lovestruck, and optimistic. He was twenty-one with a chip on his shoulder roughly the size of my new city. A barista. I developed a caffeine addiction that required six shots of espresso per day. I'd pretended it was for my heavy course load when I'd go into the cafe to study, but I paid more attention to his sickly-sweet Prada cologne and how he leaned on my table than any assignment.

He had me wrapped around his finger.

As you can guess, I was an idiot without a poker face. Instead, I wore my heart on my coffee-stained sleeve. Tentative smiles, wide eyes, too-loud giggles. One night, after months of lingering hugs, he'd pried it out of me. Swore he felt the same way.

He quit his job and blocked my number shortly after.

When I was infatuated, I'd written hundreds of poems romanticizing every detail about him. When he broke my heart, I buried them with promises to never read them again. I quit writing poetry for two years. Then, when I was twenty-one, I remembered that my words weren't about him. My writing was a reflection of who I am and the love I'm capable of.

I haven't quit writing poetry since.

with an extra shot!

3.) The Page I Tore Out

I'm not writing about this one.

He twisted enough of my words.

instead, here's a candid of my first friend in the city (right) and me!!! summer 2021 :)

4.) The Greek Tragedy

This was one of those tragic downfalls where I flew a little too close to the sun. We were best friends. I had never met someone who understood my hamartia quite like them. When we met, it felt like fate. I thought we'd stay friends forever.

I wish them well, and I'm grateful for the impact they had on my life. I never would've had the confidence to tear out that page without their help. It was our own hero's journey. But it ended, as good things often do. For a long time, it all played on a loop in my head, like a film reel I couldn't switch off.

I finally found the button this year. The quiet is nice.

With this one, I learned how to turn my hubris into catharsis through a crazy amount of journaling (and therapy). My writing got more honest after this. I like to think I did, too.

late night drives in the rain :)

5.) The Haunted House

This one is fresh. I ricochet between a dozen different lessons every week -- one day doomed by the narrative, then destined for greater plots the next. I live alone now, exorcising ghosts every time I buy new furniture or art for the walls. I'm learning how to make it feel like my home. But I'm still sweeping dog fur off the baseboards, and it's been months since everything ended. It's a slow process.

At least for today, I think this lesson mirrors the first: I had to rediscover how to be on my own and learn how to be okay with that. Just like back then, this ending was also a beginning. And I'm starting to like the person that I'm becoming. I like reclaiming my voice.

Maybe that's why you can finally hear it in my writing.

city of stars

We've heard it all before: not every relationship lasts forever. Romantic, platonic, or familial, the ending leaves an impact. That might sound like a threat, but it's not inherently negative. I've loved, I've lost, and I've learned each time. These relationships shaped me -- and shaped my prose, too. That's worth being proud of, even if some have been redacted.

I still reread those pages when I'm stuck. Rediscovering my words helps -- I just can't linger in the narrative for too long. Life is still moving, and I want to move with it.

As ever, thanks so much for reading! Let me know who helped write your story, too. I'd love to read along.

Until next time,

Jeanette :)