The first month after leaving, I fell apart in small ways.
I forgot what time the supermarket closed. I couldn't figure out the buttons on the washing machine. I couldn't understand my landlord's accented English.
One night, I stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at a bag of seasoning I couldn't identify.
In the past, I would have taken a photo and sent it to Julian.
He couldn't cook, but he could tell salt from sugar just by looking at the packaging and running a quick search.
I picked up my phone and opened my new contacts.
There were only 17 people in it.
He wasn't one of them.
I laughed quietly at myself, put the seasoning back, and boiled the simplest bowl of noodles.
I overcooked them.
I ate them anyway.
Back home, Julian stopped calling directly. He started sending messa
