writers’ piece

Four writers mull over a moment that changed their perspective.

By Mia Timpano -

I had an ex I stayed friends with for many years after we broke up. I called him “my prince”. I believed our love existed beyond space and time – because it really felt that way. He nurtured me through painful chapters of my life. He described me as a “small, wounded forest creature” and said it was his “job” to “protect” me. Reflecting on that now, all I can say is: what the fuck.

At the time, it seemed like he was giving me what I needed. These days, I’m older, intolerant of people who treat me like a nonhuman invalid who originated in a mystical enchanted woodland, and am slightly confused as to why I elevated this individual to a royal status. Remaining ‘friends’ kept me locked in a strange world with him – one in which we had to call each other every day. I claimed he was closer to me than family. And I believed I could not exist without his soothing words and occasional hugs.

The friendship was like a drug that gave me some good feelings, but was simultaneously hollowing me out and destroying my self-esteem. We don’t chat anymore. I don’t wish anything bad to happen to him, I just know our friendship wasn’t Dolly Parton-kenny Rogers “Islands in the Stream” beautiful. Now. It’s taken me the better part of a decade to get this. And, as a result of my newfound wisdom, I’ve told anyone who will listen that you should never – ever – be friends with an ex.

So, when a recent ex – let’s call him Henry – popped past my work, I braced myself. I knew he’d be coming in; I saw his name in our Google calendar. Thinking it would be best to pave the way to politely avoiding each other, I dropped him a line to let him know I’d be around. He replied politely and suggested it would be nice to catch up over coffee. Would it be, though? Wouldn’t it be awful? And fucked? And cause us both to break out into eczema? I accepted, nevertheless.

Henry appeared next to my desk looking radiant. Life had clearly been going well for him since our break-up – skin doesn’t lie. So I told him, honestly, “You look incredible.” He paid me a compliment of some sort; I don’t recall what exactly, because Henry is constantly complimentary, so it’s to be expected that he’ll say something like, “You look like Audrey Hepburn,” even if you’ve just vomited in his lap. I’m not saying he lies – I’m just saying he sees beauty everywhere he goes.

We arranged to catch up across the street once I was done with my task at hand. My heart jackhammered for the first 10 minutes of our coffee consumption. Then, as we began to discuss life, our creative endeavours, our creative frustrations, work, opportunities, lack of opportunities, travel, I found myself thinking, “Aren’t you awesome?” Not awesome as in want-to-be-with-you awesome, but awesome as in all-roundperson-in-the-world awesome.

We kept talking. He promised to come to a show I was putting on. He did. We spoke for a while afterwards. We laughed about silly things and discussed serious things. He wrote to me to say that I appeared “like a lantern lit from within”. He is a friend. But it’s radically different to being friends with my other ex. Because everyone is different, and every relationship is different. You can’t take what you learn about one person and apply it to all of human society. You need to be open to the possibility that things will unfold completely differently with a different person. As it turns out, you can be friends with an ex. I was wrong. I’m glad I was wrong.