Edik/ Freak Party

At eighteen, love seemed like a silk dress hiding the bruises from her father's scandals, and like an armful of raspberry roses that Edik brought on a date. It smelled like burnt sugar and the salt of first kisses in the rain. It seemed like this was the point of no return, and only eternity together lay ahead.

Now you're twenty. "Eternity" has turned into a pack of antidepressants on the nightstand and a viscous emptiness.

It's three in the morning. The only light is the screen of your smartphone. You're back on his profile. You know every post by heart, methodically liking old bar photos and shady selfies, but hitting "follow" is beyond your strength. It would be admitting defeat. Showing that you're still there, in that dress, waiting for his call.

Your finger hovers over the call button. Your heart pounds in your throat. You want to scream that the pills aren't helping, that the silence in the apartment is driving you crazy. But the fear of hearing his cold, indifferent voice is stronger than the desire to touch the past. You still haven't brought yourself to do so.

Two weeks ago, you met his ex at a bar—the one you'd spent six months spewing vitriol at in text messages. You were supposed to be at each other's throats, but you ended up stuck at the same table. First, the venomous barbs, then the shared memories of how he'd forget important dates and how he'd look at you in a way that made you want to turn inside out.

Three hours later, you were sitting there, huddled, completely wasted, cursing him together while listening to cheap pop. It turns out that shared pain brings people closer together than any interests.