Why is the first break up always the hardest?

That is the million dollar question.

Some say it is because it's the first time you've opened up your heart to someone and suddenly it gets smashed. Maybe it is because you feel as though you wasted your time on something that failed even before it launched.

You now start to look back and wonder and try to pinpoint the exact moment where it all went wrong. On the first date? After the first kiss? the first dance? Before you exchanged "I love you's" that will forever be etched in your heart and your heart alone? You start this dangerous cycle since now you question what perfection even is since it wasn't the person in front of you for the past 5 months.

For me, it took three days to say hello, four weeks to ask him on a date, two months to get a kiss, five months for it to end, and one year to realize I was still in love with him.

At first, our relationship was bliss. I felt as if I was dating my best friend, someone who I could have countless conversations with, from starting our own nude society to what it was like to be raised on nothing but organic food.

I stared at him like he was a God—as if he were a rare species I could gaze on. I don't think he ever knew how much he meant to me or how much I meant to him, but in my eyes, he was the sun that my lonely planet revolved around. He was the angel that I needed, the light at the end of the tunnel. He was a fantasy that I didn't think existed. When I was younger I didn't quite believe in love, but with him, I could see the raveling of feelings starting slowly but surely to evolve. Then life hit me like a ton of bricks.

That cold February day, exactly six days before Valentine's day, he took me on our last exposition that we would have together. We walked on the train tracks, the only thing that was visible was the smoke of the unfiltered cigarettes that the rest of the group was smoking, that never bothered, me but however, this time, the smoke resembled a candle that had just been blown out, and it made me feel particularly sad on that fateful Saturday night. He didn't hold my hand nor did he look out for me that night either and he stopped calling me by my first name, some say that would be a tell-tale sign, but I tried to ignore it and just savor the few moments alone that I had with him. I was staring at him so intensely, and even though he felt my glares like laser vision to his face, he still didn't say anything for me. One hour went by and then two, and suddenly he wanted to stop by his dorm to drop off something. I asked him if he wanted to be alone hopefully waiting for the moment that he looked into my eyes and took me by the hand and we would have our own wonderful talks about the usual nonsense, But he just shook his head. He held my arm and pulled me to the side to whisper what I thought was sweet nothings, but instead a bullet in the form of words. As he explained in one simple sentence that we were no longer together I quickly packed up my dignity and ran. I ran all the way to my dorm and flung the door open and sat there horrifically sobbing in the lobby about what I thought was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I felt as if my heart was taken out of my body. As the tears flowed, thoughts were racing in my mind. "Why are you so stupid?" "You should've known he was too good for you!" "How could you have let him hurt you like this?" Then, suddenly, like a crashing wave, came the anger, denial, and worst of all the sulking.

So for the next few days I sulked. I occasionally cried, and I occasionally was happy. My feelings were fluctuating so much that it was almost exhausting just to be one singular person. I watched every single movie that was in my Netflix queue to stop feeling so lousy, I even started trying to hang out with other people instead of our immediate group of friends to avoid questions. I dodged his blank glances and his hellos. I snarled every time he thought it was ok to sit next to me in our classes that we shared. It wasn't. It wasn't ok to spit on my feelings like that and it wasn't ok to pretend like what we had for the past five months wasn't anything short from enchanting and mesmerizing. It wasn't fair that he thought everything between us was friendly again, because it wasn't. I still harbored feelings of embarrassment and shame, but most of all I was still hurt by a person I called my best friend. I think that's what sucks the most about the first breakups, the lingering feelings. That knowing if he even came back you wouldn't hesitate to take back all the pain and hurt and suffering just to try to recreate what was the eternal flicker of your love. It's not as beautiful as poets make it, and it isn't as hopeful as Hollywood portrays. It is a feeling that goes with until you no longer wish to feel it any longer.

After feeling this way for a couple of months I divulged into this almost spiral from my former self. I isolated myself from my friends and stayed away from things that reminded me of my past. I was too hurt to face the facts, and the sad part was that I had no idea what the "facts" actually were. I cried more and laughed less. I then thought if I found another person to fall in love with potentially would help my lost cause of a situation, so I was playing it by ear. I talked to a few guys, some I actually cared about and still remain friends with to this very day and some were just the dirt underneath my dull shoes. However, they didn't fulfill the vast void that he left. Too often I was comparing everyone to him so in a way I was self-sabotaging anything that could become anything with anyone. Eventually, I got out of my rut, when I wrote about how my perception of reality after the breakup was forever altered for an English class, it was a bit dark but it did the trick of finally letting me close this chapter of my life. Suddenly, I felt so much more different and in fact, my new mission was to finally find Elyscia Vaughn Brown, once again.

Months passed by and I felt finally like myself for the first time in a about a year. I still missed him and I still pined for him occasionally, but it didn't take up my entire life like it use to. I made more friends and started relationships that were more meaningful. I started to draw further and further away from loving him to hating him, to finally thanking him. I thanked him for allowing me to find myself, and I thanked him for allowing me to explore not only the good parts of myself but also the dark slippery parts that I didn't know existed. So perhaps in the moment the first breakups are always the hardest, but in the end they are the most meaningful because they prove the point that even at your lowest moments you can bounce back and persevere and be a better you. So maybe, after all, they aren't the hardest but perhaps, the most fulfilling.