He sits in what used to be their living room, and thinks. When she isn’t around, his memory jump-starts, and he remembers so much more. Their first dinner together. Their first shared stomach bug after a dubious golgappa. Their first kiss, their first book, their first semi-fuck, their first full-fuck, their first sunrise. They were each other’s almost-first love.
Their first dinner party, where he’d stared at her as she negotiated the room with her easy conversations. Their first piece of furniture they bought together. An ugly table that became the centrepiece. Their first film, where his hand had gone a deep shade of blue because she held it so tight. Their first home together, becoming a united force against that real estate agent who was the spawn of the devil himself.
But the reasons why she and he were no longer in the same living room were like a big homogeneous mess. What was their first lie? That night when someone had called her and he suspected it was someone else? Or was it when she said she was happy with him? What about their first fight? What constitutes as a fight anyway? Is it when voices are raised, or the hint of a disagreement? When was the first time that he slammed a door on her face? Or the first time that she hung up on the phone?
He doesn’t know when it was that his heart first broke. But then it breaks over and over again. That’s the trouble with hearts. They don’t break in one go.