Bridget says it as if it’s a cosmic rule, but all I can think is,What part of my life is supposedly going okay?
Because if this is the ‘spectacularly to pieces’ portion, then what counts as the win?
The fact that the pill worked and my period arrived this morning?The fact that I haven’t watered my plants in a week and they’restaging a silent rebellion?The giant burrito I just ordered on Uber Eats?If there’s a part that’s going well, I’ve clearly missed the memo.
There’s a half-eaten packet of Tim Tams on the coffee table.I stare at them.They stare back.I blink first.The hot water bottle clutched to my stomach does little to ease the cramps.As if my uterus is protesting over lost potential.
My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter.
I shoot up way too fast for someone currently bleeding like they’re in a Shakespearean tragedy.My body moves before my brain does.For one brief, delusional second, I let myself hope – ridiculously, stupidly – that it’s him.
Luke.
Of course it’s not.
It’s Uber Eats.My burrito has arrived.I buzz the driver up, grab the brown paper bag from the door and collapse back onto the couch with the energy of a person who’s accepted defeat as a lifestyle.On the screen, Bridget’s in full meltdown mode, singing ‘All by Myself ’ in pyjamas.It feels too real.I unwrap the burrito and bite into it messily, sauce dripping down my hand like I’m in a sad music video.
My phone buzzes again.I freeze, burrito midway to my mouth.
Still not him.
This time it’s a follow-up notification from Uber Eats, asking me to rate my delivery experience.I resist the urge to type ‘spiritually unsatisfying but edible’.
I stare at my phone anyway.Even though Luke’s number isn’t even in it.But the silence he left behind is still here.Before, the quiet used to be comforting.I used to love coming home and having no one expect anything from me.Now it’s a form of punishment.
I shift on the couch, peel another layer of foil off the burrito and slouch deeper into the cushions.I tell myself this is fine.This is self-care.WatchingBridget Joneswhile eating a lukewarm burritois healing, technically.Solidarity with fictional women who cry in their kitchens.Therapy-adjacent.
I’m home.
But it’s not home anymore.
It feels like a stage set where I’m pretending to live.Same walls, same lighting, same knick-knacks on the shelves.But I’m different.I left something essential behind on that goddamn farm.Something I didn’t realise I needed until I walked away from it.
I should be doing something productive.Laundry.Journalling.Processing my abandonment issues.
Instead, I open Tinder.
If I can’t have closure, maybe I can have a guy named Connor who owns three dogs and ‘doesn’t take life too seriously’ but who definitely has a gym selfie and a boat pic in his profile.We all have our coping mechanisms.
I lean over the coffee table and grab my go-to nail polish.Desert Rose.My nails are a mess, chipped from the farm and whatever emotional storm I dragged them through on the flight home.I start swiping on Tinder as the first coat dries, holding my fingers awkwardly in the air so I don’t smudge them.
Swipe left.
Left.
Another left.
I swipe as if scrolling for divine intervention.Every bio is a tragedy.
Looking for my partner in crime.Immediate left.
Big fan of deep convos and margaritas.Maybe?
Swipe.Swipe.Swipe.
Then – John.Or maybe Ben.Something strong and monosyllabic.
He’s cute.Looks normal.He wouldn’t throw me off a balcony or send an unsolicited dick pick.He’s not doing a finger gun.His dog is wearing sunglasses in one photo.It’s … refreshing.
