At first, it aches. It hurts like someone removed an organ and your body simply cannot do without. There’s a hole in your chest where something was ripped out, and all that remains are lonely threads of bloody gristle.
Over time, you can still identify the exact location – the diameter, the depth. The edges begin to heal. You breathe deeply into it at night.
You think about him on the subway, or during a dinner when the conversation turns to something even slightly related to him. You grow silent and sip your wine, as the ache reverberates through your entire body.
You stare into space, and someone next to you, perhaps a friend, or even your current boyfriend, seems to know. After a few more drinks later in the evening he leans in and quietly asks if you’re over “that time.” You smile and nod, trying to reassure not only him but yourself.
You start stalking him on all of the social media sites where your tracks can’t be traced. You see his warm smile in photos and eventually, reluctantly, begin to wish nothing but the best for him.
You begin to hope that he’s doing alright. The yearning to see him again fades out, turning into a fond trust that someday, you even might.
The hollowed out space in your chest hardens and even cools. It becomes silver metal, like a foreign object that might show up in an x-ray. It’s not organic anymore. At some point it manages to dislocate itself from where it was embedded in your body.
Yet it doesn’t leave you. That feeling is always there.