13. God. That number is so painful for me now. I see it everywhere I go. 13 more minutes till the bus arrives; 13 assignments due this week; 13th floor on an elevator; $13.00 tank top from Pitaya; 13 missed phone calls from Mom. God. I have so little mental energy that I cannot even answer my mom. What kind of daughter have I become? No, forget that. What kind of person have I become?
It was September 13th when we were last together. I mean, really together. It was one of the most tranquil days I had spent on campus. Around 5:30 PM, he knocked on my dorm room door with quiet confidence and walked in wearing his million-dollar smile and salmon, business casual polo shirt. As I was finishing up my Spanish assignment, he stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders and gazed outside into the courtyard. The sunlight from my windows radiated the sparkles in his eyes. I am afflicted knowing that these images continue to burn in my memory.
We spent three hours on my half-lofted bed contemplating our lives. He told me more about his family, how he missed his friends back home, and all about the new club he and his friends were thinking of launching. His voice soothed me more than any form of meditation or mindfulness practice. I vented to him about my worries concerning my grandparents, and he never interrupted me. Then we simply lay next to one another, just staring into each other’s eyes, our favorite Hindi songs subtly playing in the background. He would sometimes softly translate the meaning behind the lyrics since he speaks the language fluently; I admired how connected he is to his cultural roots.
What I hated the most about him was that we could spend an entire evening together talking and it felt as though I was with him for only ten minutes. To me, time was our greatest enemy. But there was something so authentic about his presence. Despite our chemistry and constant lighthearted verbal sparring, silence is the word that comes to mind when I think about him because we could sit in any room without exchanging words and I felt complete. But now I am broken because silence has returned and restored its name since I endure loneliness every day.
13 days ago, on October 10th, I received a phone call from him as I was on the way out to meet my friends. Sadly, before I even picked up the call, I knew I was not going to see anyone that night. I’m not going to bore you with the conversation we shared, but let’s just say it was short-lived like our relationship.
After he returned from his hometown the next week, I knew it was over. He had become distant, and what once used to be daily phone calls and seeing each other several times a week had now turned into curt text messages and false promises. I tried to ignore my gut instincts and found myself making millions of excuses for him to my sisters, parents, and friends. I guess you could say that my heart was speaking more to me than my head.
Since that night, the only thing I have been able to muster the energy for has been indulging myself in anything Bollywood related; songs, movies, anything. Yes, engaging in this activity has somewhat depressed and pained me even more since the two of us shared a love for it. But there’s something deeper and more sentimental behind my reasoning. As a young girl, I grew up listening to Hindi songs and watching popular blockbuster films from the early 2000s. My grandfather and I bond most over our mutual love for this genre of music and entertainment. Watching these movies and hearing these songs transport me to a feeling of youth, innocence, and joy. Why should I allow a failed relationship to rob me of my past memories?
For anyone that is going through a rough patch – whether it is related to family, academics, loneliness, or love – my best advice to you is to occupy yourself with activities that make you feel comforted and provide you with solace. Yes, take your time to wallow as much as you need; but in that mourning process, try to remind yourself of the good times. Healing is what matters. I am still attempting to comprehend and come to terms with my feelings, but doing the things that I love has brought me closer to acceptance.
Here’s what I know right now: the number 13 will continue to be a number that drains me of any emotions that I may have at this point. In the future, I’ll look back and see it as a sign of strength; that I was the one who got myself out of a heartbreak that has crushed me so immensely.