Illustration by Shenuka Corea/The Gazelle

The Skype line finally clicks, terminating the communication. I breathe an involuntary sigh of relief that transcends time zones and geographical borders. I listen closely, and about 7000 miles away, he sighs in relief too. This explains why it was so easy for us to let go of each other this winter break, back home.

It’s okay for both of us to grow on our own. We can grow in the absence of the pressure to narrate our daily lives to each other, a ritual without which we feared our bond would fray. The same bond that, with the passage of time, was becoming as fragile as a dining hall Weetabix in a bowl of hot milk — the hot milk being the passage of time, in case the analogy wasn’t clear already. I should have eaten before writing this.

Speaking of food, since it all ended, I’m no longer the person at the table who whips out her phone to document everything to send to her boyfriend. As a film major, I now do it with a much bigger camera and an annoyingly personal desire for the documentation of aestheticism.

I no longer feel the frustrating need to summarize my mammoth of a day into tiny, understandable ant-like segments, hoping in vain that the army of stray words would assemble and make sense eventually. I remember that once, after a particularly eclectic routine of learning how to hem a dress, understanding the linguistic use of parentheses in writing and learning how to get cool blur in motion pictures with the shutter speed of a camera, I described my day to my former boyfriend in three succinct WhatsApp messages:

“Dress.”

“Bracket whispering.”

“Camera blurry stop.”

No wonder he felt as if we didn’t communicate enough. Of course, when we did, it was wonderful. It was as though we were the same people as before. Talking about nothing and everything, sharing plans, dreams and really bad jokes against the contrasting backdrops of moonlight and sunlight.

Will I miss the comfort of knowing that someone, hundreds of miles away, is waiting to see my face and hear my voice with as much eagerness as I am? Yes. But can I convert my terrifying dread of the unknown into a healthy affection for the idea of adventure? Sure. I can use my camera and my lovely friends as emotional crutches. I will do so until I dance with abandon on my own again.