Part I

*Written around 10pm EST, Saturday, August 8th 

Since June 5, 2026, I’ve been somewhere between very sad and depressed for big chunks of most days. I’ll own this, because it’s my fault I fell in love. Or more accurately, I fell in love with the wrong person. Be careful, that shit can destroy you.

I remember when I “swiped right” on her. I’d been on the app for several weeks, definitely past my usual two-week self-imposed limit, and I hadn’t had any “success” and decided it was time for an extended hiatus. That’s my usual approach to dating apps: give it a short run, and hope for some matches. If they come, great. If not, disconnect and live life, return to the algorithm when the desire becomes too overwhelming. 

But Hinge gives you an option to refresh all your “missed connections” before deleting, an option I’d never taken before. For whatever reason, this time I said, “Why not?”

It would be too perfect to say she was the first one who populated after I opted back in, but I know she popped up within no more than three profiles. And I know she was the only one I contacted on that reboot trial. 

I looked at her pictures; she intrigued me. I don’t recall seeing her on the last cycle through, but she had a kid, and I don’t typically date many women with children. Maybe she never surfaced on the first pass; I don’t know. But whatever it was about her, I decided to send a message, not expecting anything. These apps require guys to throw out a hundred messages in hopes of getting one or two hits. It’s simply a numbers game. 

Do broken hearts always heal? (Image retrieved from here and comes courtesy of Leeloo the First.)

But she replied within the hour. And we had a good exchange, one I would’ve loved to keep going, only I’d made plans to meet a friend at a bar for drinks – in fact, the one I was at tonight. I met him out, eager to get back and restart the conversation with her, but by the time I got home and tried to do so, she’d already logged off for the evening. 

Thankfully, we resumed the next night and started getting plans in place to meet up. The communication was established on a Saturday; the first date was a Wednesday. We spent 4.5 hours at a bar and had an amazing time. Standing out in the parking lot by her car at the end of the night, we talked about our second date, and I was on board for that.

Needless to say, we did meet up, and then some. For roughly six months. 

And I let my hopes for the future blossom, carelessly avoiding any thoughts that this thing could derail. But derail it did. And in a way that no survivors could walk away from the wreckage. Well, she seemed to walk away just fine. I’ve been on life support ever since. 

This summer has been one of the most trying of my life. During my first four weeks outside of my adopted hometown, I was nearly comatose; willing myself through what otherwise should have been an enjoyable time away. It got better on the second half of the trip, but that was a false positive, as I saw about a half dozen friends, and they provided much-needed distractions, but also unintentionally helped me construct a façade around my wellbeing. By the time I got home, the tide of depression came back to shore. What was I so eager to get back to? Reality? Being back in the place where our lives were so wonderfully entangled for a short time was very difficult because it was painfully obvious that we were no longer a couple and never would be again.

The relationship fell short of half a year, and here I am, two months passed its demise and still unable to shake off the hurt. I actively wonder if the pain is going to surpass the amount of time we were together; at this point, I don’t see a safe haven on the horizon. 

The sorrow in my heart can be so damn heavy that I literally don’t know what to do. It’s hard to enjoy life. It’s hard to do work. It’s hard to have enthusiasm for anything, but nonetheless, I go through the motions because I don’t have any alternatives and know of no other way to go about. Is this what I have to look forward to? And if so, for how long?

I started a journal about her/us two days after she dumped me, plotting out the string of daily entries from when I began it all the way through when I was to get back from my nearly two months away, including the day I expected (hoped?) to see her again. We had communication over the summer, though it was sporadic and lessened as the weeks drug on, but it was always implied we would see each other again upon my return. But apparently it wasn’t as implied as I thought…

I wrote nearly 50,000 words in those 52 days. After all that it still doesn’t adequately capture my feelings for her and the hurt inside me at having lost her. What makes it worse is I don’t know how I lost her. She just flipped a switch, seemingly, and I became expendable. It’s impossible to explain the feeling of having a clear vision of the future destroyed without any clear rationale. That a reason hasn’t surfaced two months later hasn’t made it any easier. 

So, I’ve oscillated between sadness and depression ever since. Sadness on the good days – when I see friends and have healthy distractions – and depression on the other days when I’m isolated and can’t find anything to take my mind off her – and us. 

The bar I was at tonight, Wahoo’s, is one I used to be a regular at but hadn’t been to in a while, and the one I went to on the night we first connected on the dating app. 

In fact, the last time I was there was with her. We’d gotten dressed up and went to a really nice dinner and then popped into the dive bar to have a few drinks and chat. That’s where we talked a little bit about the future, including the plan for me to meet her daughter after I returned from my trip out west – in other words, about now. 

I was to meet her daughter on my ex’s 35th birthday – which is this upcoming Saturday, August 15th. Needless to say, that won’t be happening. I won’t even be seeing my ex. All communication has been severed at this point, and not at all by my choosing. 

From where it was to where it is, well, it’s been a mighty long fall. I’m almost sad I survived it; the pain of the injuries feels far worse than death at this moment. Yes, I’m being overly hyperbolic and a tad dramatic. But it hurts. Uncomfortably so. 

But such is life. I guess I’m lucky to have made it this far and avoided depression and this type of severity from heartbreak. I only wish the dream had become my reality. Instead, I simply learned that nightmares come true, too…

Part II

*Written around 330pm EST, Saturday, August 22nd 

I was sitting at a bar with a friend last night, and we are about to depart there to head to another – Wahoo’s, in fact (also the same friend from the night I matched with her on the dating app). Just before I got in my car, my phone pinged. I saw that I had a Venmo transfer – from her. Back in April she’d booked a ticket to come visit me out west this summer, and I split the ticket with her. But after she broke up with me, those plans got changed. I didn’t ask for the money back; I didn’t really care. I was much more concerned with the end of the relationship.

So, I was surprised to see her send me this payment. Less so because it had been months since the trip got canceled and more so because she hadn’t had any contact with me in almost four weeks. She’d seemingly ghosted me, and that’s how the relationship ended. Sadness has a way of compounding. 

My instinct was to text her “thank you,” and I did. Obviously, that she reached out in any form after such a long silence had me flummoxed. I couldn’t think of much else and it was hard to go meet my buddy at the next bar, but I did. I’m sure I wasn’t present in our conversation at all. But then it occurred to me to check my email – and there I saw it, the first communication from her in a long while, something I’d been hoping to receive, even though I knew the relationship was over. I still hoped it wasn’t, but all the available evidence clearly pointed to it having run its course some time ago.

I was further unsettled. I finished my drink as my friend ordered another and I told him he’d have to finish that one on his own. I needed to sit somewhere quietly and read this message several times. I also already knew I would be responding to her. How could I not?

The subject line was “a shitty apology from a shitty person.” The sentiment expressed was one of remorse for how she handled the situation, not just in the last few weeks of no communication, but from the time she broke up with me. She indeed did not want to be in a relationship with me – or anyone – and she didn’t see that changing anytime in the future. She then apologized for, in her words, being “cruel” during the ordeal. It did feel that way at times for sure. She also told me I “didn’t do anything wrong.” In fact, she wrote that I “did everything right.” A bitter pill to swallow. What does that get me? 

And here I am. Now I know for sure. She said she still loves me. She apologized profusely. I don’t know if we’ll see each other, and life moves on regardless. I wish I could flip the switch on my emotions and feelings for her – the way it seemed she did to me, but I cannot. I just have to endure and wait for time to heal these wounds, as it’s been promised they will. Time can’t come soon enough… 

Marco Esquandoles
Floating Listlessly