I’m writing this from somewhere over the Atlantic. Which is kind of fitting, really, since that’s where my relationship fell apart. While he was in New York deciding that he had never been in love with me, I was in London falling even more deeply in love with him. And so, somewhere over the Atlantic, it broke.
I hardly slept last night (despite having some great new bed sheets with dogs on them). There’s something about visiting the US that makes me miss him even more.
It’s silly, because at home in London we live about a mile and a half apart. Yes, I think about him constantly. But why should it hit me even harder when I’m travelling 4,000 odd miles to a different country?
I’m thinking about last January when he had to go to New York for three days on business. I remember how happy we both were when he got home. How much he said he had missed me.
I’m thinking of the morning he left for the US back in May. How we said goodbye and then I climbed back into his bed for an hour and smelled his smell on his pillow. How secure I felt.
I’m thinking about his flight home, the day of the pizza of doom. Did he already know when he got on the plane that he was going to break up with me? Did he decide when he landed in London? Or was it something that happened somewhere over the Atlantic?
Pizza of Doom 
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