Heartbreak isn’t just about losing a partner, it’s about losing the world you built together. In this love letter to the things we leave behind, the heartbroken share the things they’ve lost
Sometimes we stay in relationships longer than we should. Probably because cutting ties with a partner doesn’t mean losing just one person; it means losing everything that came with them. The only remnants? A fading scent on a hoodie, borrowed mannerisms and a secret language no one else can speak. I’ve lost second mums and safe havens, the best dog I’ve ever known and my relationship with Rainbow Kitten Surprise. Heartbreak is grief – often, all we want is to quietly mourn the little things. So we’ve invited the heartbroken to share their collateral from loves lost, reminisce about nostalgic sounds and smells and pay homage to the things we hold on to from a world with a distant love at the centre.
“When we were together, I moved to the city they grew up in. Their parents took me in as their own. Their mum and I would hike. Just the two of us. Their dad put down the deposit on the car that I drive to this day. They were my parents, too.”
“We spoke a language that only existed in the world we built together. When a relationship ends, the language disappears, too. There’s a sudden silence where those jokes used to land and moments where you almost say something in “your” way before remembering there’s no one left who understands it. Some phrases or gestures still feel like muscle memory.”
“They taught me to love cooking, not just the act of making a meal but the ritual of it. My family dinners always have name cards now, even if it is just a small group.”
“I kept all the letters I got from him over the years. Even mundane ones like ‘I popped in and you were out, I love you!’”
“The random seashell he’d picked up on the beach for me.”
“He was a geek about music, and sharing songs with each other was a big part of our relationship. I can’t listen to Spotify without considering if he’d like the song I’m listening to. “
“Pickles in tacos, nice frying pans, truffle oil, and buying more expensive clothes that last longer.”
“I have a sense of entitlement for my expanding hot sauce tolerance, thanks to his dad’s hot sauce.”
“When I travel to Italy, I now won’t order a cappuccino after 10 am; it’s a cultural no-no. His family told me this after I tried to order one at night.”
“Hardest goodbye? The boat. Something he made me love? His boat. Something I wish I could have kept? THE. BOAT.”
“I got drunk a few days after the official breakup and texted their mum a long paragraph saying thank you for everything, that I was so grateful for how she welcomed me into their family and supported me. She was a second mother to me. We text every so often now, but we never got to say goodbye.”
“I have so much love for rap music (although he played so much reggae that I don’t like it anymore).”
“During the pandemic, I would spend entire days at his family home while he was at work; cooking with his sister, playing video games with his nephew, and reading to his niece. In the summers before the pandemic, I’d drive them to football and volleyball camps. When we broke up, his mum, who had always been so encouraging of our romantic relationship, was suddenly telling me to leave her son alone. Losing them really impacted my sense of self.”
“I stopped listening to music for six months. I’ve now started listening to a lot more hip-hop and R&B, and I am LOVING it. But it’s been four years since I’ve been able to listen to folk and a lot of indie artists.”
“I love boats, cars, weed, skateboarding, Montauk. I learned that sometimes you just have to let them go, no matter how badly you want to fix things.”
If we are anything, we are an amalgamation of the people we have loved. They linger in our vernacular, our playlists, and in our newfound taste for English cooking… or Polish cooking. Their mum’s skincare stays in your routine, their sister’s way of making tea echoes in your ear as you pour too much milk, and you still listen to Led Zeppelin as you pass South Ken. But it gets easier. If you let them, the things they once gave you fade into your being and become a part of what you get to give to someone else. Eventually, the songs lose their sting, and you begin writing your own future – even if you’re writing it with the loopy ‘y’ you picked up while you were with them. To grieve someone is to have loved them. How lucky.
