That night, sleep was out of reach.

Tears streamed down my face as I lay curled in bed, feverishly typing what felt like an endless stream of messages to him. Each word stripped away another layer of my pride and dignity, every sentence a desperate plea to salvage the four years we had spent together.

My phone was my lifeline, held tightly like a drowning person clutching a life preserver, terrified of missing even the faintest response from him.

At 4:30 in the morning, when the world was still shrouded in darkness, his reply finally arrived.

"Stop sending messages. I've blocked you."

An ominous red exclamation mark appeared next to my latest message. In a swift and decisive act, he cut off every line of communication between us. WhatsApp, phone calls, emails—every connection severed and discarded.

Someone I had loved for four years had closed every door that led to him, vanishing entirely from my life.

When Skylar found out about our breakup, she hugged me tightly, visibly frustrated as she ground her teeth.

"This is like a soap opera breakup!" she exclaimed. "Nine times out of ten, it means he's found someone else!"

I shook my head, speaking with certainty. "No, that's not him. It's probably the distance; he just got tired."

Oscar has always been strikingly handsome, which attracted many beautiful women over the past four years. Yet, he always firmly turned them down. If he were inclined to stray, he wouldn't have waited four years to make a move.

Even the day before he broke up with me, he was still sending me the usual "good morning" and "good night" messages on WhatsApp. I naively held onto the hope that he was one of the rare few exceptions.

Skylar looked at me with concern, seemingly wanting to say more, but in the end, she just let out a resigned sigh.

In the days following our breakup, I couldn't let go. I reached out to all our mutual friends, trying to gather any news about Oscar. However, they seemed hesitant, hinting that Oscar had told them not to mention him to me. He cut all our connections abruptly, leaving me no time to adjust.

Standing amid the wreckage of our relationship, all I had was an unsatisfying conclusion. Yet, he wouldn't even tell me why we weren't right for each other. If we were truly incompatible, why hadn't it come up once over the past four years?

After the breakup, I spiraled into a prolonged period of self-doubt. It felt like I was haunted, constantly searching within myself for the reasons behind our failed relationship. Was I not gentle or considerate enough? Did I not care for him as much as I should have? Was it because I hadn't visited him in a while, letting things grow cold between us? Or maybe our arguments just wore him out? These thoughts circled incessantly in my mind, building up until they became a crushing weight.

I lost my appetite, going from three meals a day to barely finishing one, which tasted like cardboard anyway. Sleep eluded me at night. Every time I closed my eyes, memories of Oscar flooded my mind.

I recalled that Thanksgiving dinner after our final exams. Oscar, our class president, handed a bouquet to our teacher amidst a round of applause. Then, holding another bouquet of roses, he turned and slowly walked toward me. He handed me the vibrant red roses, his deep gaze locked on mine, and asked, "Arianna, would you like to be with me?"

Time and again, my pillow was soaked with tears. He wielded the sharpest knife, forcing me to endure the agony of our shared memories. In just a month, I lost 33 pounds. I stood before the mirror, staring at my haggard reflection. My cheeks were slightly sunken, my eyes bloodshot, and my eyelids swollen like walnuts.

My best friend, Skylar, couldn't bear to watch anymore and took me to see a psychologist. The diagnosis was clear: moderate depression.