Forget me not

THE RESURGANCE OF COMFORT FOOD IN THE ERA OF RECESSION

I am an avid googler. So, when I was 16 and in love for the very rst time, I would panic research the probability of your rst relationship being lifelong. I’d scan article upon article of fairy-tale romances and opinion pieces on the necessity of a rst heartbreak. My parents were often bombarded with questions when my need for reassurance grew too large for Google to handle.

The Uber driver talks to you about the train strikes and, distantly, you can hear your voice answer him. You sound polite, happy even and you don’t know where that voice is coming from because surely it can’t be you. Your body is too preoccupied with the pain in your chest to be making any legible noise.

The night ies by your window in bright, colourful streaks, and the idea of oating weighs deep within you. You’ve lost your anchor, your home, the ties that kept you grounded, the morning and night that bookended your chaos, your favourite person.

Life goes on, slowly, but it does. Family and friends babysit you and sing you lullabies: ‘I never liked him anyway’, ‘he was punching’ and ‘there’s plenty of sh in the sea.’ None of them soothe you, but you laugh along and try to convince yourself that they’re right. You are better o .

You think back to the articles you once read on the inevitability and necessity of a rst heartbreak and conclude that the writers must have been sadistic.

Words by Charli Phillips