For some people, heartbreak looks like inhaling a chest freezer’s worth of Ben & Jerry’s, sitting saucer-eyed in the bath like a sad frog, or screaming your way through Alanis Morissette’s entire back catalogue.
For me, heartbreak looked like a flight from Los Angeles to New York in March after yet another “romantic estrangement”. We started experiencing turbulence somewhere over Nebraska. The plane lurched, lights flickered, and a bowel-emptying plunge took those who had not belted up out of their seats. Masks dropped, adults prayed and children screamed bloody murder. Me? I just sat staring straight ahead, uncaring. My heart had been ripped out a couple of days earlier. I was already dead.
