You go out and buy food and wander around your neighbourhood. And you lay down on the bed and day dream and think about what other people wrote.
You cook dinner for one, an awesome dinner for one, because you decided that there’s no excuses to not eat an awesome meal every day, even if it’s just for you.
You read blogs like this one and this and this old favourite that you’ve been following for six years now according an old facebook post you stumbled upon. You think about how you would always refer to her and her blog as the copywriter girl. That’s how he knew you got a certain idea or recipe from her blog. You think about him and how you’d go out tonight and eat ramen. And you hope he feels better soon and you wish you knew how to make ramen yourself.
Instead you make this mean chanterelles pasta, recipe curtesy of the copywriter girl.
It’s been seven weeks since we spent that lovely summer afternoon at the open air museum. Sipping beers into which my tears fell. He bought me a strawberry tartlet, my favourite, to wipe away the tears and put a smile back onto my face.
Breaking up is never easy, but somehow I find it even harder when things have just run its course. No one to be angry at. No one caused this, it just happened, or at the very least we both let it happen.
We still talk and laugh and remain friends. Which is the best possible outcome i think. Yet this all makes the past seven years seem like such a blur. Like its fading away.
I don’t want it to become a distant memory, and at the same time I do because I look forward to what the next seven years will bring. Endless possibilities, that’s where I’m at right now. That freedom feels suffocating and liberating at the same time. Guess that’s what happens when you decide together to each go your own separate ways: all of a sudden everything has opposite sides.