A few days had been enough to know. I hoped he would come back. The conversation lasted through the night, through bouts of anger, tears, words of love. Finally, shortly after he came back from a long trip to visit a dear, sick uncle, I broke down. I called, and called, and laid awake waiting.
I thought it was as good as it got, with you. I packed my bags at least twice, shouting at him that I was going back home. He had blamed distance and so had I, and it had worked for years — so well, too well. He had given up thinking he could find the one. Anyway yes, we have permission to have the ceremony in Italy. His reasons were that getting a new job, moving to a new city and planning a wedding were taking too much of a toll on him and he needed to be single to sort his life out. I was disgusted by my own thoughts. Everything in India frightened me. And it was all we needed. She was understanding, forgiving, and helpful — knowing far too well what I was going through, she repeated to me countless times I had not lost someone worth keeping. It was all working out. Since I had made my decision already, I decided to stick with it. Something about the image of me buying myself my own wedding flowers was unbearable to me: We finally found a place that worked and bought new furniture. We met in Italy, fell in love and spent the summer of our lives on intense weeks together and long stretches apart: About six months ago, my boyfriend of four years and I got engaged. I was sorry I was so embarrassingly heartbroken. In the teeming backstreets, electrifying and overwhelming, I looked upon poverty and dirt, equally horrified. In Paris, London, Italy. A few days had been enough to know. I cried when I saw my mother. I saw myself as shallow and materialistic for wanting a place that was nice and comfortable. Sleeping was out of the question. But we did need the papers. I went back to our apartment.
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