I almost texted my ex on Wednesday night. On the J train, of all places, right as it climbs up over the Williamsburg Bridge and the whole skyline opens up like it's showing off.
That view gets me every time. Manhattan glittering, the water dark below, and me alone in a mostly empty train car feeling every one of my feelings at full volume.
So I opened his contact. Started typing. Something casual. Something that was absolutely not casual. You know the kind. The text that pretends to be a question but is really just a flare gun fired into the past.
We broke up in spring. It was the right call. He was kind and it still didn't work and both of those things are allowed to be true. But loneliness is a liar, and Wednesday night over the bridge it was whispering all its favorite lies.
Here's what I've learned about almost texting your ex. The urge is never actually about him. It's about wanting to be known. Wanting someone who already has the map of you, so you don't have to explain yourself from scratch. It's laziness dressed up as longing.
The train dipped down into Marcy Avenue and I put my phone in my pocket. Didn't send it. Small victory, but I'll take it.
Got off in Williamsburg and walked a while instead. Called my sister in Ahmedabad, who was just waking up, and told her nothing important for twenty minutes, which is the best kind of phone call. She could tell something was off. Sisters always can. She didn't push. She just talked until the feeling passed.
That's the trick, I think. When you almost text your ex, you don't need him. You need to feel connected to something. So call the person who's safe. Walk across a neighborhood. Look at the water.
I deleted the draft on the walk home. Felt lighter. Felt twenty-four and okay and a little proud.
The skyline doesn't need you to text anyone to be beautiful. Neither do you.
Love,