The cheese stands alone. Again.

Still? Here's what getting dumped means:

I know I didn't invent loneliness, but this feels quite private and permanent.

How am I different from that girl who first came to Boston to expand herself and stuff lovely things into her brain? Well, no one could have guessed... that's not true, my mother guessed and guessed correctly... that I'd succumb over and over again to sadness. I am, at my very core, diseased with a sadness. My bones are steeped in it and they ache with the extra weight, they hide with the shame of the tint of it.

So I leave this room... I see people... I try to keep my ears open. I try to keep my eyes open. I try to notice birds and leaves and all the tiny living things that want to be on this planet that spins so fiercely without us feeling it.

It was only a matter of time before he figured it out, how doggedly I haunt myself with my own ghosts. How at first it seems like I come from a different planet, I'm a brain you've never encountered and full of strange and quirky beauties, and then eventually he sees that each of my gestures are limited by a kind of lack of vocabulary. I repeat and repeat and fold in and knead and good lord it all ends again.

I imagine how light he must feel, although I know there's sorrow, too. I think of it as the feeling of finally allowing yourself to throw away that broken pot that someone gave you. You should keep it; it was a gift. But you never really loved it especially. The guilt of having to explain why it couldn't sit in its usual spot anymore... it seemed like nothing could reverse that... until one day, you simply decide, and the pot is a pile of shards in the dumpster. Relief, to not have to look at it and feel guilty for hating it. Not even hating! To feel guilty for having no feelings for it, and yet not being able to give it up.  And now, to not think of it again, to even think, "I should have done that a long time ago."