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still love you. But we’re going to give up too much of ourselves for this. Maybe when we’re . . .”
    “I think you should go.”
    “No, no. Let’s talk about this. I don’t want you to think I’m not . . .”
    “I’m asking you to leave right now.” The big tears—the ones that come with sobs and snot and puffy eyes—they were close. I needed him out of there.
Now.
    He picked up his bag, the one without the toga, and leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. “I don’t think you understand how I . . .”
    “Please go.” As soon as the door closed behind him, the tears came in force.

TODAY IS THE TOMORROW YOU WORRIED ABOUT YESTERDAY
    A T THE BEGINNING OF OCTOBER, I went to a lecture about how evaporative cooling is the primary mechanism responsible for the stabilizing effects observed for gas phase additives. Maybe not the most romantic topic in the world, but the idea of cooling and stabilizing made me think of John. I guess everything did. It seemed to me that the initial intensity of a relationship has its place, like the extra power a jet engine needs to get off the ground. If we could have hung on until we hit a cruising altitude, the cooling off would have been a welcome break. If cooled gases result in structural stability, maybe it would have been the same for us.
    It had not been one of those long and messy breakups. The morning after he left, he called me at eight. I was sound asleep, having been up most of the night.
    “Hey,” he said.
    “Hey.”
    “This wasn’t how this weekend was supposed to go.”
    “Nope.”
    “I don’t think you understand how much I love you.”
    “Here’s what I understand.” The cobwebs were clearing from my head, and my eyes stung from all the crying. “You love me so much that you can’t be with me. It’s not me; it’s you. You need your space for your career. I’ve turned into a clingy freak. I get it. Here’s what I need you to understand. You broke my heart. Again. And I’m going to get over it. But not if you keep calling me to see if I’m okay. You’ve made sure I’m not okay. Got it?”
    “You sound really angry.”
Thanks, Dr. Phil.
    “I am. Please don’t call me back.” And I hung up because I’m super tough. Well, I hung up feeling kind of tough because I’d been practicing that little speech all night. Then I just started crying again.
    I’d done the self-indulgent breakup thing before. Same guy, same feeling. And the thought of wasting another six weeks crying, shoveling ice cream down my throat, and reciting the lines to
The Notebook
made me angrier than I already was. I was in my own personal heaven, with my whole life ahead of me, and I wasn’t going to let John ruin it with his “We’re too out of control” and “Maybe we need some time” garbage.
    At least that was my mantra during daylight hours. At night it was harder. I let myself cry when I thought it would make me feel better. I’d replay that last scene in my head, sure it was the pimple talk that sealed my fate. And I’d type endless texts that I’d never send. Some frequent repeats were:
     
    Was this whole thing a joke?
    Can I come see you this weekend?
    Do you ever think about me?
    I love you
    I hate you
    Can we talk?
     
    Honestly, I never sent them. Because I’m disciplined like that.
    Other things that made me think of John: all music that had played on the radio that summer, steak, any variety of tree, the sound of a foreign language, men in suits. I was careful to shy away from all of these triggers, but some things were impossible to avoid. Even the back of my hand made me think of what the back of my hand used to look like when he held it. How are you supposed to avoid seeing your hands?
    But I jumped into my classes and joined a mathematics methods club. It’s called the Roaming Numerals because they travel around New England competing in math competitions. It’s awesome. Clarke was trying to get me to join the Hackers Alliance, tempting me