In the morning you told me you had fallen out of love with me.
In the afternoon I sat in the garden staring at a garden gnome, trying to denote the truth from the cracks on its faded green hat.
I failed to find the truth. All I knew was that my heart was broken, and I didn't know how anything could carry on.
The next day was a beautiful summer day, no clouds, bright sunshine. I again took to the garden, this time choosing a spot under the apple tree. I looked at the shadows of the leaves dappling my winter-white legs; I plaited my hair into tiny plaits; I closed my eyes and the sun danced; I reached my hands through the overgrown grass; I smelt the earth.
I felt small.
Days passed and I did very little. You sent me a text message saying "sorry"; a word that offered me no comfort at all.
I didn't reply.
My mother laid out eggs and salad at lunch time, and I picked at end-pieces of bread rolls, chewing the same piece over and over and over, tasting nothing. I would stare into space without blinking, letting the tears gather without letting them go. The world would become flooded until the water got too heavy and fell.
It seemed endless.
All summer I spent in this daze, wandering from room to garden to kitchen to bed. My mother tried to talk to me, talk some sense into me, but I was glazed and my misery was impenetrable.
I was a full stop.
But then Autumn came. First I noticed myself noticing the browning of the leaves. Then I required a cardigan for my daily meeting with the garden gnome. Then it was September and a week until the beginning of term at college.
I spent an afternoon sorting out my books. I called my friend. I heard my voice lift itself out of monotone. I cried. I went back to college.
I survived.
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