Day 1

My fiancé called off the wedding yesterday, and as I write this, I’m wearing the sweater he wore when he proposed, trying to sniff his smell out of its sleeves.

It’s strange to me how like grief this feels. We were an international couple—he in France, me in the United States—so our interactions consisted mostly of Skype and emails. Now, there’s nothing. I’ll never see him, never cross paths with him, never know anything of him again. He, in some ways, has died. People tell me I’m fortunate to be able to go through my life, knowing we’ll never run into one another again. I don’t feel anything fortunate about the situation.

I do notice, however, that everyone else’s love swells and stretches to cover his lack of it. I’m receiving eternal hugs from parents and siblings. Everyone wants to do something to ease the hurt. The barista at Starbucks offered me my caramel macchiato free after I sobbed my way through the drive-through. “You shouldn’t have to pay if your day is already this bad,” she said. My sister-in-law took me to a restaurant and I sat there, across from her, slurping down glass after glass of Coke, but struggling to swallow solid food. I perpetually feel like I have the flu. My throat is closed.

Returning things and cancelling things has been the greatest trouble. I called to cancel the bridesmaid dresses, but the manufacturer had already started the sewing, so I simply received an “I’ll see what we can do.” I drove over and tried my hand at begging, but I realized quickly how pathetic I looked—my hair crazy, my new chic glasses smeared with mascara and steamed with tears. I looked past the sales women to see girls trying on their wedding gowns with young men I imagine must be their fiancés. Everyone looked at me in horror. Shops like this should be happy places. “I once looked just as happy as you do,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t, not because I had the self-control, but because I had a sister-in-law with me who ushered me out before I could make a scene.  The photographer, who also happens to be my aunt, cancelled with no financial penalty, but offered the stunned silence that “The wedding is off” inevitably brings. The silence was followed by apologies. I didn’t know what to say to them. What should one say to, “I’m sorry”? As for the rings, they couldn’t be returned. After being turned away from the jewelry store—and, to my dismay, the woman put the two rings back in a fancy bag with wrapping, which painfully mirrored the day when we’d bought the rings six months earlier—I decided to go down a different route and try selling them for scrap metal. The man at the store was nice enough, but when he put the magnifying glass up to his eye and clinked away at the diamond with something that looked like an ice pick, I felt myself growing ill. He came back beside me, told me he would melt the rings down into something new. He offered me only $122 for the engagement ring and the two wedding bands. I felt my hand clamp down over the rings, and I told him “No, thank you” and left. I knew I’d rather keep them in a box forever than sell them to be melted into nothing. Maybe it’s crazy, but the rings have represented so much happiness for me. “It’s too soon,” the man at the shop said. “I think you should sit and think about what you want to do before you do anything rash.”

I know it’s soon to be cancelling and driving from place to place, but the wedding is off. There was no phone call or visit. Just an email sitting in my inbox when I checked my messages at 8 that morning. “Dear Katie,” it read, “I’ve been waiting for a good moment to write this, but what timing could possibly be good for such news?” He wrote on in his overly-formal, learned English that there really are no explanations, that his love has cooled, and that I should go on to live a very happy life.

It took me hours to write up a “Thank you for being honest response” and assuring him I would do my best to get his things back to him. After years of dating, whirlwind trips through Amsterdam, Bruges, Gent, and Paris, this is how it ends.

And today, I woke up, having forgotten the breakup while I slept, but feeling the missing ring on my finger. I walked to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and told my reflection that today would be better. But I promptly collapsed on the floor and cried until the tears dried up. It’s 8 in the morning. Twenty four hours since everything fell apart. It’s going to be another long day.