Heartbreak is my only souvenir.

Strangers gawk at me as I take my walk of shame toward home. The sexy black sheath dress hugging my body is wrinkled. The black peep-toe shoes are giving me blisters. Smoky eye makeup continues to smear under my eyes, and black mascara runs along the side of my cheeks. My swollen lips are dry, cracked, and bleeding. Why did I even bother with makeup? And let’s not forget the real reason strangers are staring at me. It’s obvious my disheveled attire reveals I’m not going to work, unless they think I’m a lady of the night.

I peek at the store window reflection and notice my hair is sticking up. The sexy hairdo from last night has long vanished, after making desperate love to a man who left me the next morning … alone in his bed with a note.

I meander through SoHo, walking my way up north while braving the onslaught of pedestrians on this midmorning weekday. The bustling city streets. The harsh sound of vehicles. Strangers going on about their day. I focus on everything except the constriction in my chest. Anything to forget the man who entered me all night long. The man played my body like an instrument. My body hummed; it sang. Sounds had escaped my lips. Sounds I had been unaware of.

Lina, just move on.

It was stupid of me not to hail a cab or tap my Lyft app, but I didn’t want to stop. I couldn’t stop.

Go on, girl. Just go home.

Standing at the intersection of Broadway and Houston, I wait at the corner for the walk sign. Several minutes go by, and the light has turned green a few times. Yellow cabs roam about my favorite part of the city in search of their next fare. Amidst all these New Yorkers, tourists, NYU students, and lonely wanderers in search of something, I stand here lost. What I was searching for the most, I found in his startling gray-blue eyes, his full lips, his thick, disheveled black hair, and the pronounced scar on his cheek. The haunting image of Julian Caine’s gorgeous body fucking me senseless through the night continues to vex me.

I still feel him.

One night.

That’s all he offered.

I wrap my arms around my chest as if this will protect my heart from breaking. You’re too late. Raising the volume on my phone, I want this particular song to drown out my pain. Ceelo Green’s “Fuck You” is on repeat, playing for the tenth time. And although the song was meant to empower me, it’s mocking me instead.

* * *

The main entrance door opens, as one of the tenants leave my apartment building. Clutching her right hand is her chubby six-year-old boy, Samson, singing an all too familiar song by the Beatles. “Yesterday” stings my heart. With everything in me, I greet them before walking inside with my head held high. As I am about to walk to the set of stairs, Samson tugs the hem of my sheath dress.

“Lina, can I come play your piano?” he asks, staring up at me with his big brown eyes.

And although I would love nothing more than to spend my day crying my eyes out, this little boy is too precious to say no to.

“Of course, Samson,” I say, trying to hold back my tears. “Just come over anytime.”

“Awesome!” he says, raising his small fist in the air.

His mother, Scarlett, offers a grateful nod before reaching for her little boy’s hand.

Watching them as they make their way to the small park across the street, I ache inside, wondering if I’ll ever have a child of my own.

One day, Lina. One day.

Each step I take requires effort. One foot in front of the other, Lina. You’re almost there.

Finally reaching the staircase that leads me to my loft, I place my trembling hand on the banister, desperate not to fall apart.

Why does it hurt so much?

Biting my lip doesn’t prevent the onset of tears and I allow a few to slide down my cheeks.

Everything hits me at once.

The past few weeks with Julian Caine. The most romantic dinner of my life on his boat. Walking hand in hand along the streets of San Francisco. Our late-night conversations. Playing video games with me late into the night, so I could better understand music in an unfamiliar medium. Traveling to our favorite childhood haunts in Manhattan. Celebrating my birthday together−a day that usually consisted of me lying in bed and counting the hours until it was over. It was the first time I had celebrated my birthday since my father’s death. Our first kiss as the rain started to pour. The constant haunting image of Julian making love to me all night plays like a movie trailer on repeat.

Taunting me.

Punishing me.

My body shudders just remembering the multiple orgasms he managed to wring out of me. Orgasms I’ve never experienced with someone before.

And then there is my fiancé. Rather, my former fiancé, Andrew Nielsen. The man who confessed his love for me sixteen years ago when we were teenagers. The man who asked me to leave my life in NYC to move to LA, where he enjoyed the company of his research papers at UCLA more than the company of his fiancée. My head hurts at the memory of him dismissing me … discarding our relationship as if it were the easiest to do.

Andrew let me go without a glance. He continued to work in his home office, searching for papers that were far more important than the woman who loved him, before typing away on his ancient black typewriter.

I. Am. An. Idiot.

An idiot for wasting years loving a man who no longer desired me. An idiot for making love to a man who didn’t want me the next day. An even bigger idiot because although Julian didn’t want me, it didn’t change how I feel.

I still want him.

I finally find myself in front of my home, exhausted.

I’ll be okay. I need to be okay.

Last night. Last night was just a prelude. I exhale before promising myself that today is going to be the beginning of a new chapter in my life, without the two men who both broke my heart.