Before my first class that morning, I go to the fancy paper store on Riverside Drive and buy myself a pack of thank you cards. I’ve been thinking a lot about Juliet’s gratefulness assignment and decided that I should give it a shot myself. Because in reality, I have a lot to be thankful for. But the stress of everyday life makes it difficult to remember all the great things that I really have.

I sit on the bench outside of the library with a cup of tea and open one of the cards.

My mind goes blank. I had all of these thoughts swirling all around in my head last night and this morning. I couldn’t wait to get those thank you cards in my hand. But now that I’m ready, pen in hand and all, nothing comes to mind. I flip the card over. Little yellow clouds and blue flowers grace the cover. They’re drawn in a whimsical cartoonish way that makes me smile. But when I open the card again and stare at the white space within, nothing comes to mind.

Okay, Alice. There has to be things that you’re grateful for.

Something.

Anything.

I pick up my phone. I look up “how to write a thank you note” on Google and discover a slew of advice about proper etiquette of thank you cards. Not exactly what I’m looking for.

“How to keep a gratitude journal.” A little bit more appropriate of a search. Pages of advice follow.

Don’t just go through the motions. Go for depth. Get personal. Savor surprises. Don’t overdo it.

Sound advice and all and yet I’m still no closer to knowing what I want to say.

Okay, Alice. What’s the purpose of this? I ask myself. The purpose is to force yourself to take in some of the good things in life that I would otherwise take for granted. But what does that mean?

My mind meanders and stops on the one person it has focused on for the last three weeks.

Tristan. Again. Fuckin’ Tristan.

I’m angry with him for being here. For being my roommate. For complicating this crazy experience of my first semester of college. As if the whole thing weren’t going to be complicated enough.

But what if there was another way to look at it? What if instead of focusing on Tristan, my ex-boyfriend, and his uncomfortable presence in my life, I could see the whole thing in a different light?

I opened the thank you card again.

Dear Tristan,

Thank you for being here at Columbia with me. Less than two weeks ago, you’d broken my heart into a thousand little pieces. I had loved you for two years and you’ve been my best friend for five years. When we broke up, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. I thought that I would love you for the rest of my life even though I never wanted to see you again.

And then less than a week ago, I came to school and discovered that you were one of my roommates. I wanted to get away from you. But not because I hated you (I realize that now). I wanted to get away because I never thought that I’d be able to get over you. I felt like you were invading my life. A part of me still feels that way. But with every day, my feelings for you, those bad, ugly feelings, fade just a smudge more. And so, I’m writing you this note because I want to thank you. I want to thank you for being here and being my roommate even though it’s probably the last thing you’d wanted as well.

And also, I want to thank you for breaking up with me. I’m still in pain, but the more days pass, the more I realize that our breakup was the beginning of something new for me. If we were still together then I wouldn’t have the opportunity to have the real college experience. The one where I go out with my friends, flirt with guys, meet someone special.

Perhaps it’s futile to hope that things between us will get less weird and that sometime in the near future we can actually be friends. But you know me; I’m a sucker for the underdogs.

I hope you have a great semester and a great life. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that all of your dreams come true. Thank you for being such an important person in my life up until this point.

With all of my love,

Alice

I close the note. I can’t believe that I wrote all that. The words just poured out of me and I had to re-read the note to really know what I wrote. I can’t believe how gracious I sound. Is this all true? I wonder. It came out of me like a flow, as if some sort of muse was guiding my hand, so it must be true. No truth was ever reached through over-analysis. It’s the things that we do and think on impulse, with our subconscious minds, that are really true. Or so some people argue. I sort of think they’re right.