16. The Day After

Church was yesterday.
Seeing C was yesterday.
It was... fine.
(You know. The kind of "fine" where you definitely don’t cry in the Trader Joe’s parking lot afterward. Definitely.)

We sat next to each other during service. Hugged hello. No public meltdowns, no cinematic fireworks. Just your classic “we're functioning adults, nothing to see here” energy, with only a slight awkward buzz in the air — like a radio stuck between two stations.

Still, part of me had hoped — wildly, irrationally — that we’d have One of Those Conversations™. You know, the deep, healing ones where you both miraculously achieve closure, inner peace, and maybe ascend directly into emotional nirvana.

That didn’t happen (shocking right?!)
But for about two seconds, it almost did.
We were alone in the church lobby while our friends were changing clothes getting ready for pickleball. C asked how I was doing. ("Good," I lied.) I asked how he was doing. ("Alright," he lied back.) And just when it felt like maybe — just maybe — we were about to say something real, a friend burst out of the bathroom and hijacked the moment. Classic.

I know, I know — it’s dramatic to mourn a two-minute conversation that didn’t happen. But when you're low-key hoping for a sign from God and you get interrupted by a flushing toilet, it stings a little.

After service, we all headed to the pickleball courts because nothing says "healing" like passive-aggressively smashing balls at people you’re emotionally confused about in ninety degree heat.

And this is where things got extra charming:
I was hauling approximately 47 random items from the car — paddles, balls, everyone's water bottles, basically the entire inventory of an REI — because apparently that's just my role in life: the pack mule.

C noticed.
Of course he noticed.
And he wasn’t subtle about it either.
He marched right over, exasperated, ripped everything out of my hands, and asked, "Why are you always the one carrying everything? Why does this always happen to you?"
Like it physically pained him to see me being the human version of a U-Haul trailer.

And look, maybe it was just a moment.
Maybe it was just him being a decent person.
But for half a second, it felt like more.
Like maybe some part of him still hated seeing me burdened.
Like maybe he wished he could take more than just the water bottles out of my hands. (Or maybe I’m just dramatic. Hard to say. Consult your local astrologer.)

Anyway. We sweated through some chaotic pickleball playing where I definitely wasn't pretending to smash my unresolved emotions across the court. Nope. Totally zen over here.

Afterwards, we all scattered back to our separate, normal lives, pretending everything was fine because what else do you do?

And honestly, it was fine.
Fine, like gas station sushi is fine.
Fine, like saying "I'm happy for you" when you mean "I might cry in the car later".

One thing did catch my eye, though:
During church, I saw C journaling. It looked like he was thanking God for his suffering. Cute. So we’re both out here writing thank-you notes for our emotional disasters now? Trendy. I couldn’t help but wonder what suffering he meant. Breakup stuff? Family stuff? Existential dread? (All of the above? Circle one.) And yeah, it kind of hurt not knowing. It kind of hurt realizing I don't get to know anymore.

Later, because I'm a glutton for emotional ambiguity, I texted him:
"Hey, just wanted to check in. How’re you feeling after today?"

He responded warmly — because of course he did. C is genetically incapable of being mean.
He said he was alright, that it was fun. I agreed. "Fine," I said, the millennial version of waving a white flag.

We acknowledged it had been awkward.
He even said, "I think I instigated most of those awkward moments."
(10 points to Hufflepuff for self-awareness, our most underrated coping mechanism.)

We talked about the dumb jokes he made at his expense, his mention of the awkward interactions with girls at our local coffee coffee shop (because that’s just what I want to hear about. The girls who are flirting with my ex…), and the weird emotional limbo we now occupy. I appreciated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

Somewhere in there, the conversation drifted — like a poorly steered kayak — into that murky territory between "Are we friends?" and "Are we strangers?" and "Are we two existential crises wearing matching church merch?"

He said he’s not looking for anything new right now.
He said moving on isn’t even on his radar.
He said our conversations have actually helped his healing, and he hopes they’ve helped mine too.

It has.
There are good days.
When Mercury isn’t in retrograde and I’m not imagining him dating some girl who makes artisan sourdough in her free time.
But there are also bad days.
When it feels like someone took a cheese grater to my heart, but hey, healing isn’t linear, right?

We talked — lightly, hypothetically — about what it would be like when one of us eventually started dating someone new.
How things would probably have to change.
How maybe we’d need to keep an open dialogue about it so nobody gets blindsided.

He said, "I’m not anywhere near that phase anyway."

And I believe him.
Because if there’s one thing about heartbreak nobody tells you, it’s this:
It’s not always loud. It’s not always dramatic.
Sometimes it just looks like two people sitting side-by-side, pretending everything’s fine, both carrying way more than their hands can hold.

Healing is messy.
Healing is slow.
Healing is you, carrying chairs and burdens you didn’t ask for, and him noticing — but still not quite being able to fix it.

And maybe, maybe healing looks like this:
Loving someone without needing to own them.
Hoping without expecting.
Moving forward even when it feels like you’re leaving a piece of yourself behind.
Learning — one dropped water bottle at a time — how to let go with grace.

And if nothing else, at least now I have killer biceps.
Thanks, emotional labor (and pickleball).

- Cheesecake