After the breakup, I spiraled into a prolonged period of self-doubt. It felt like I was haunted, constantly searching within myself for the reasons behind our failed relationship. Was I not gentle or considerate enough? Did I not care for him as much as I should have? Was it because I hadn't visited him in a while, letting things grow cold between us? Or maybe our arguments just wore him out? These thoughts circled incessantly in my mind, building up until they became a crushing weight.
I lost my appetite, going from three meals a day to barely finishing one, which tasted like cardboard anyway. Sleep eluded me at night. Every time I closed my eyes, memories of Oscar flooded my mind.
I recalled that Thanksgiving dinner after our final exams. Oscar, our class president, handed a bouquet to our teacher amidst a round of applause. Then, holding another bouquet of roses, he turned and slowly walked toward me. He handed me the vibrant red roses, his deep gaze locked on mine, and asked, "Arianna, would you like to be with me?"
Time and again, my pillow was soaked with tears. He wielded the sharpest knife, forcing me to endure the agony of our shared memories. In just a month, I lost 33 pounds. I stood before the mirror, staring at my haggard reflection. My cheeks were slightly sunken, my eyes bloodshot, and my eyelids swollen like walnuts.
My best friend, Skylar, couldn't bear to watch anymore and took me to see a psychologist. The diagnosis was clear: moderate depression.
