If I’ve learned anything from fifteen years of failed relationships, it’s how to mend a broken heart. I’ve mastered my own personal recipe for recovery—one part tears, two parts junk food, add a sprinkle of vodka-fueled rebounds as needed. Let heal for one to two months, and voilà, I’m back on my feet again.
But when I was driving to my apartment yesterday, desperately trying to blink away my tears to get a clear view of the road, I knew that this would be no ordinary heartbreak. This is the kind of thing I might never recover from. And my night of nonstop crying, hyperventilating, and blowing up Landon’s phone with texts only reinforced that fact.
After maybe a grand total of two hours of sleep, the view from my couch this morning is equally bleak. I’m not sure which is less healthy—my
