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In our first three weeks of meeting, my Boyfriend made me a playlist of songs that soon became the soundtrack to our
falling in love. Two years later, we were broken up with a whole ocean between us. Blocked on all online platforms, but
still following him on Spotify, I discovered that he had been secretly adding break-up songs to that same playlist.
Most mornings, off the high of my first coffee, I'd check his Spotify activity to see if he had deleted the playlist. I
loved the rush of opening the application and awaiting my verdict, always finding that our castle still stood. "For Gabi
1-18-21" the playlist title would read, as if waving on a white flag.
Some days, I'd perform this routine check and notice that the song count had shifted a digit. The high I felt from the
playlist surviving another night would then multiply. I didn't have Facebook statuses, I didn't have Instagram stories,
but I had songs, every couple of weeks.
"I'll Never Smile Again" by Frank Sinatra appeared on the list and felt like a win. I was missed, I was irreplaceable.
"Perdido De Amor" by Luiz Bonfra, a Brazilian song shaped like distant passion.... Double win.... "Better Off Dead" by Bill
Withers.... Win.... "Helplessly Hoping" by Crosby Stills & Nash.... Win.... "Chelsea Hotel #2" by Leonard Cohen.... Zach
Bryan.... Bob Dylan.... One day, a song entitled "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay appeared. I read
the title to myself and felt a wave of solace. Damn right.
One morning, "What Am I Gonna Do" by Chris Stapleton had been added to the growing list of yearning cowboy tunes. I
pressed play. "What Am I Gonna Dooo.... When I Get Over You?", "What Am I Gonna Be.... When You're Just.... A Memory?"
The lyrics moaned into my kitchen. All of the songs prior had spoken of a wanting, an aching, a grieving, but never a
forgetting. I felt my internal momentum halt and dwindle. I leaned back. I leaned forward. Something sank, something
else blurred. My grace period was clearly closing in on its inevitable end—the flag had been lowered.
I listened again and again. "What Am I Gonna Dooo.... When I Get Over You?", "What Am I Gonna Be.... When You're
Just.... A Memory?" Sure, the song itself still quaked with decent levels of heartache, but the man was ideating.
Up until this song, I knew that any day I could flip a switch and The Break-Up would demote into A Fight, and I'd gain
back all that I'd lost. I'd spend some days in submission, mitigating old ills. I'd become the big spoon most nights.
I'd cook and clean 30.5% more than my usual and I'd be humble and patient and receptive. I'd tend to the wound until it
was forgotten and by the end of this short sentence, I'd be back in the arms of the last person who truly loved me.
It was clear that soon this luxury would no longer be mine to have. I could feel the route dimming by the second and a
decision had to be made. That night, I cold-Facetimed him and bought a plane ticket in the same hour.
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