Day V: Post Mr. E(nigma)

Riddle me this…

One would think the further away you get from a breakup, the easier it becomes. Clearly not. Normally I heal the way I always have, by replaying every dagger-sharp memory until there is nothing left to feel. It is barbaric, efficient, and has worked for centuries.

But this time was different. The mortal who broke me mentioned how he heals, slowly, over time, letting the edges dull on their own. As if I, of all goddesses, needed to be taking mortal advice on heartbreak. And yet, in a moment of absurd generosity, I treated it as a parting gift. From him, and to him. My way of saying I listened, even as he shattered me. So I tried it, as though I might learn something new, as though time could do what my own ritual of ruin has always done. Perhaps I thought I deserved that small mercy. Or perhaps it was my last devotion to him, not of love, but of regard, honoring his advice while quietly noting the absurdity of being schooled in heartbreak by the very mortal who gave me mine.

All of which leads, inevitably, to today, where the wisdom I borrowed from him feels less like a gift and more like a curse repackaged.

Today I am hurt and mad. Mad at myself for longing after something that was never my mythical idiot, for craving the mediocrity of collapsing on a couch and calling it intimacy. I miss it the way mortals miss deadlines…constantly, dramatically, and with no good excuse. My insides want to scream, but on the outside I serve up my usual performance of happy, because apparently my curse is strength when all I want is the luxury of weakness. To be sheltered. To be kept. To be protected for once in this endless eternity.

So here I am, throwing a mini tantrum in prose and calling it wisdom, testing out mortal remedies as if patience will save me. It won’t, but at least it gives the gods something to laugh at. And honestly, I laugh too, because if heartbreak has to be my curse, I might as well make it entertaining.

And don’t mistake me, this isn’t me leaving space for him. How do you leave space for someone who never chose you? Even if he wandered back a week, a month, or years later, I wouldn’t suddenly be the prize, I’d be the leftover he finally decided was good enough. People adore blaming timing and circumstance, but that is just a polite excuse for not bothering with patience, communication, or effort. Even the ugliest beginnings can survive if both people stay in the wreckage and do the work. But once someone sacrifices you to save themselves, you are not a choice anymore, you are a convenience. And I may be cursed, but I am not convenient.

—SYL, Furious Toddler Who Just Needs A Hug