“Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido” (Pablo Neruda)
More than anything else, the acceptance of change, the letting go, was the hardest thing. To leave the hurt behind, to treasure the present and look forward to the future … it seemed so simple. But the hurt was all she had left of him, and she wasn’t ready to give him up, not yet.
They say that it takes one hundred days to break a habit. No contact for one hundred days. The first day was so hard. And then not contacting him on the second day, then the third. And just when she began to feel she was getting somewhere, a momentarily lapse, a longing, a sadness … so she messaged him. He did not respond of course. Did he even read her heartfelt words, or just press delete? Did he think of her at all, or was it really that easy for some people to just move on? She felt frustrated, ashamed, angry with herself for being so weak. And so, she deleted his number, and went back to day one. And the cycle would begin again. A resolve to move on. Then an overwhelming sadness. A demented search for his number which she had hidden away, but couldn’t quite destroy. An unanswered message. The hurt.
She did all the right things. Eat, sleep, repair. Life goes on. Eventually, after more day one’s than she could remember, she gave up. He was gone. The days became weeks, then months, and the moments they shared felt like they had happened to someone else, someone she didn’t know.
She could not see it then, but it is true what they say that time heals. Hope is like a drop of morning dew, slowly tumbling from a fragile leaf into a deep, dark pond. A broken heart slowly, slowly mends while life goes on around it. The sun rises, the day happens, the sun sets, time to sleep and forget … and so it goes on. And all the while, those drops, the light catching them as they fall, those tiny drops of hope, land and ripple, until the surface of the pond changes for ever, bringing light into the darkness. Drip, drip, drip …