By Mehnaz Sahibzada

Our break-up began the way many do: with a gradual process of admitting there were issues, followed by the mental Yo-Yo of whether these problems are worth the perks. Then a period of limbo. Discussions with my therapist. A distancing, an indifference, and a sense that things were actually dying.

Walking away was no longer an option. It was inevitable. Recognizing this, there came acceptance. Later, a formal announcement to friends. A kind of coming out, if you will, which was sometimes met with support, and others, with suspicion. At the library, I sometimes still think of you as I pass the aquarium on the way to the restroom. Opening my handbag, I spot the ghost of you in the small mouthwash bottle where I used to hide you, hiding from myself.

Our affair began when I was eighteen. I fell for you as a freshman at the U. My roommate brought you to our dorm room one evening. Sliding off flip-flops, she introduced you with a guilty smile. She seemed to obsess over you. But I didn’t think she could claim you just because she fell for you first.You teetered by my seashell collection. Seeing you, I blushed, thinking of the ocean.
We fell into a pattern of hanging out. You didn’t mind me smoking; you encouraged it. You saw me naked before I really knew you. We made out during parties near campus. You hummed in my room while I wrote poems. I carried thoughts of you while walking. I surmised you were a narcissist who took center stage. Others worshiped you. But you made things so pleasurable, I couldn’t call you out.

My immigrant parents didn’t know about you. They would’ve frowned when they saw me clutching you like we’d already made love. On a visit to L.A. I told my parents that I didn’t want an arranged marriage. To my surprise, they didn’t resist. After college, we sailed into a committed relationship. My friends knew, but I didn’t mention you to my family. Those years I worked at the bookstore, we stayed together. I quit smoking and started therapy. Then I got my library science degree. I kept you close, at times feeling seasick.

During most of the years I stayed with you, I didn’t think our relationship was toxic. We spent our days apart and our evenings together, kissing after dinner. You made me laugh, but sometimes your availability annoyed me. Still, you were an ally through social gatherings. Days I wanted to disappear, you understood.

I rarely questioned you. You stood by me through brunches with friends and trips to London. When I visited family in Pakistan, I traveled without you, but when I returned, I sought you out.
My friends adored you, and my coworkers swooned over you. There were difficult moments, yes, but that was to be expected. Most days you seemed to offer more than you took.I thought if I got pregnant, we’d break up. So I took birth control pills. You forced things out of me I wasn’t ready to share, and it bothered me that under your spell I confessed things.

The months turned into years. I traveled to Portland, Paris, and Tangiers—meeting you in every city. Your presence cheered my steps. Sometimes, between shelving books, I’d steal you into the bathroom at work when no one was looking. It made me feel sexy, all the secrecy, worrying that others might find us, feeling the sweat bead my neck. I loved the white walls of the library, the gigantic saltwater aquarium downstairs glowing with tropical fish. I wanted to pen odes to the fish, but you never took much interest. Still, you were my muse. You melted the blues away, igniting my heart.

On that trip to Napa, I felt a jealous wave when the French tour guide, your clingy friend in the red skirt and cream blouse, held you so tenderly, taking you in, like she knew you in a way I never would. I almost broke up with you that night. Back at the hotel, stripped down to lingerie, the moon peering in through the window, my skin quivering with rage, I crumbled. I lay on the bed in the semi-darkness, acknowledging how much I’d lost myself in you.

When my body gave me headaches, I blamed it on stress. Ignoring the signs, I kept reaching for you. I’d journal about you but wouldn’t name you. I dwelled on the sensations of you, the way you felt inside me. I snapped pictures of us together and posted them on social media. Sometimes there were others in the photos, but I told myself our link was special. Fleeting moments of doubt, the only threats.

During my roaring twenties, we were inseparable. When my smarmy boss made a pass at me, I clung to you as I’d never done before. I started smoking again, but you didn’t judge me. Feeling lost, I went on a Buddhist retreat, returning to Los Angeles a week later. Those cold mornings sitting zazen on the mat, something shifted. After the retreat, I grew weary of you. Our relationship had never been about love, I realized. It was more about drowning.
When you were inside me, I no longer felt pleasure. I’d wake up feeling sick.

I began to resent you. My friends noticed the change, and I cowered, sensing the pressure to keep you in my life.

But after the summer passed, a poem rose inside me like a tsunami, swallowing all the trepidation. I ditched you and the cigarettes.

It’s been six years since we broke up, and I’ve blossomed like a lotus. When I meet up with friends at restaurants, they still wonder why I left you. Ordering another round, they ask if I miss you, what I do now for fun. Without you, I’ve discovered a quiet contentment, but I don’t verbalize this. I sip lemonade.