The Entire Netflix History of Us (NYT Fashion and Style) Sad breakup story

Rob and I broke up on a Monday. It was the first warm day after an impossibly long winter, which made the whole thing feel that much more cruel. I was in line at Starbucks when I got a text that read, “Hey, you around? I think we need to talk.”

Just two short sentences, but they had the destructive force of a sudden summer storm.

As I walked home, panic settled in my stomach like a swallowed stone. I went into my bedroom and closed the door, even though I live alone. Our conversation was brief, or so it seemed. I had no concept of time.

I refrained from asking him why and therefore seeming desperate, a perception of collectedness that came at the expense of my gaining any real answers or closure.

What I did manage to gather made me realize that as I had been floating along on a river of bliss, he had been mentally cataloging evidence of my flaws.

Earlier that week, we had talked about stopping by the Tompkins Square dog run. We didn’t have a dog, but we loved to sneak in — always one at a time to give the impression we had arranged to meet each other there. We’d give the dogs funny voices, accents, back stories. Or maybe that was just me?

I went to work early Tuesday to remove the pictures of us from my cubicle wall, redistributing the others in hopes that co-workers wouldn’t notice and ask. I put the thumbtacks back in their little box, tucked the photos into a folder in the bottom of a drawer and went to the bathroom, where I cried in ugly, shallow breaths.