Blue skies are here, at last

We met at a wedding. I was jetlagged, he was drunk. I fell for him, hard, but he lived in Sweden, I lived in America, he was recovering from a break-up, I was in a failing relationship. It wasn’t very promising.
One evening in Chicago, I sent him a Facebook message telling him how I felt. He answered. And how. He managed to slip messages in my pockets, my choir books, in my passport, without my twigging how he had enlisted the people I knew there. I sent him a package. He sent me the most beautiful postcard/letters from his trip to Europe, filled with people and stories and lust for life. In May I went to Sydney to visit him. He fed me almond croissants on Bondi Beach, the rising sun scorching my white cheeks. He fell in love with me.
By this time I was a complete mess. It took a few months to go home, break up with my boyfriend, fail to complete my masters’ paper, and live at my mother's house, depressed and useless. X came to stay with me in Paris. I was still a mess. I clung to him like a lifesaver. He made me happy. Then my father got sick and spent eight months in the hospital. He almost died for four of them. X held my hand and gave me the best hugs. He also kicked my arse and made me finish my paper. He proof-read it for hours on end, correcting it over and over again. I sent it in, got a good grade. He got a scholarship to Lyon so we could live together for at least a year. I found us an apartment. We were happy. Then he wasn't. At first it was all cheese and concerts and giggles and being young and in love. I studied for my state exam, he worked on his research. Then he fell out of love with me. It broke my heart.
He had been through a lot during the year and a half we’d lived together.
So had I, in an entirely different way.
It was hard to know what would happen. During those first weeks of hell, it felt as if all the bitterness, anger and sadness that come with breakups would consume me and him, and destroy whatever bond we had. I hated seeing myself through his eyes, as a clingy neurotic mess. He didn't respect my studies. I didn't accept his quarter-life crisis, as he called it. He bought a new bike and flirted with a young thing. Typical, I thought, before breaking down some more. I did my best, and so did he. We never said the unforgivable. We tried to respect each other. As soon as my classes were over, I moved back to Paris, I passed my exam with flying colors; he got a great grant to do his PhD. We stopped talking for a month. All this feels a long time ago.
It took seven months. But I know I’m over it.
I was in the bus and one of our songs came on. A song we had both listened to when the other was away, far, when we were doing the long distance thing, writing desperate passionate emails every day, when we were so in love. And I didn’t cry. I smiled. I remembered the almond croissants on the beach, and the first time he roller-skated with me, and our trip to Barcelona and how he told me he was in love with me in front of the Sydney Opera House.
I remembered all the good things. All the negative things are gone. And today I am over the breakup, and X and I are friends. Good friends. I have so much to thank him for and I am truly grateful for every wonderful hour we spent together as a couple. I’m happy to have survived this as best I could and I am happy that he is over it too.
I started this blog as therapy for the breakup. Now it has become something else, I’m not sure what. And I have become someone else too, and I don’t mind not knowing who I could be. If X taught me something over the years, it’s that all trips are more fun when the unexpected and the strange happen. I feel strong and brave and ready for time on my own, happy to take care of myself and to be single.
I’m so thankful for my family, my friends, my blogmates. You’ve helped so much. And thank you, X, for being my friend. And for making me laugh every time I see you. I care for you very much indeed.