Purple Tears

“And I melt with you, your red and my blue. Now I see the world in purple.”

The ominous rhythm of the song I’d had on repeat whispered to my ears, and a looming sense of doom coiled in my stomach with every second I kept listening.

It had been 17 hours since the call I’d avoided for weeks. In thirty minutes of shared voices and hushed cries, the message was the same: it was time to let go.

I’d tried to ignore the collapse of this connection, and I stayed in denial for so long, yet it still came.

“I’m sorry, but no matter how hard we try, we’ll never work out. ” The shaking voice from the other line said.

It’s funny, because the only thing I’ve done is try. So much time I spent trying to mold myself into a shape that I hoped wouldn’t dent or scratch the connection.

We both tried to protect it and communicate—it was evident through the long walls of messages we sent at three AM, just so both of us could finally sleep and declare the fight resolved, the battle over.

But the war was never won, and at the end of the day, our efforts still weren’t enough.

For the past couple of hours, I’d racked my brain for answers. What did I do wrong? If I had just tried harder, been less like myself, or dedicated much more time, would he not have slipped away from my grasp?

My eyes scan my own bedroom; purple fluorescent light consumes its walls.

I caught a glimpse of my piano. The keys were almost rusty from the lack of fingers that danced on them. Beside it were dozens of unread books sitting quietly on my bookshelf, dust collecting on top of each one. I don’t know why, but the sight tugs painfully at my heart.

When I turn to look away, I am greeted by my personal diaries scattered across my desk. Diaries I used to share my every thought with, as if they were my friends. I could barely remember the last time I jotted down an idea, a fleeting memory, or a story about my day within its pages, and some pages remain blank, patiently waiting for ink and a million different thoughts to wash over their surface.

“It’s crazy, I had big dreams ’til I tied myself to you.”
The line from the song “Purple” by Olivia Rodrigo hummed; the lyrics always seemed to find the perfect moment to cut through my soul.

Between the fairy lights and artificial vines hung up on the wall were Polaroid pictures of my best friends and me. In such a tiny picture, memories and laughter froze in time. They were moments that fed my soul and made my body feel alive. Then nostalgia poured over me like heavy rain, and grief washed over me as I saw the date written on it.

4/20/26. Exactly three months ago.

During those three months, I remember barely speaking to any of my friends, because one person in particular consumed my thoughts.

“It’s a small world when it only can revolve around us two.”

At this point, it wasn’t the rhythm getting louder, but the message tucked inside the song. It put my experience into beautiful notes and words, making me feel understood. It captured my dread so well I felt vulnerable; what a tragic beauty love could be sometimes.

Despite the joyful memories I had created through the connection, I now look in the mirror and am horrified to see nothing but a stranger.  When I was deeply submerged in my relationship, I learned to identify with his traits. I spoke his same words, jokes, and usual lines.

I adopted so many parts of him that I never fully got to build or know my own.

When you spend so much of your life, especially when it has rarely gotten the chance to start, trying to learn and understand another soul, you risk your own. On the outside, doing so sounds completely unreasonable, but when you’re isolated in the same situation, you battle the overwhelming fear of being alone. You think of how much you crave the emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows, and you hold onto the illusion of loving someone more than you hold onto loving yourself.

In the wake of these realizations, a sudden recklessness took over. I dressed in my favorite color, pulling on a maroon cardigan. I let my hair fall to my shoulders in its natural, unstraightened curls, and played a track from a playlist I had carefully curated myself.

The moment I opened the door and let the cold breeze kiss my skin, I allowed myself grace. There are still many things I need to relearn and unlearn, but one thing’s for sure: Loving someone shouldn’t have to cost you yourself in the process.