On breakups, the struggle of letting go and keeping memories

At 26, I’ve had my fair share of heartbreaks…maybe too many for someone who’s only had 5 official boyfriends since senior year of high school. And that’s not counting the “situationships,” the failed talking stages, or the undefined almost-relationships that never got a title but still left a huge mark on me.

As a self-proclaimed lover girl, it’s never as simple as pretending those people don’t matter anymore. I’ve realized, I carry bits of pieces of everyone I’ve dated — some good, some bad. They’ve left behind songs, movies, books, series,  lingos, and even quirks that have slowly become a part of who I am. 

The day my last ex broke up with me, I had to do the painful thing of cleaning out my room: the framed photos, the photo booth strips tucked in my wallet, the hoodie he gave me, and the letters he wrote me. I wanted it all gone — out of sight, out of mind, right? But throwing them away felt impossible to me, and it is never even an option. So I reached for my Ex-box — the one buried in the back of my closet.

Inside the box was a whole archive of my love life: letters, concert tickets, metro tickets, trinkets, receipts, polaroids, gifts, and mementos from both relationships and situationships. Staring into that box, I realized… Maybe I am the ex

 who cannot let go. Or maybe it’s just the memories that once meant something to me, is what I don’t want to let go of.

Breakups have always been hard for me — like, really hard. When I lose someone, it feels like I lose a tiny part of myself too. Even when I’ve journaled, cried it out, ranted to friends, and done the whole blocking and unfollowing thing, there’s always this small part of me that still wants to hold on to something.

That’s why I made an Ex-box. It’s both a graveyard and a memory museum to me. A sacred place, where I keep the pieces of my past lives until I’m ready to face them. Sometimes, I think of it as proof that I’ve loved fearlessly. And sometimes, it feels like a souvenir of mistakes that I cringe at.

Every once in a while, I’ll go through it — not because I’m sad or miss any of these people, but because I’m curious about my past self. I’ll read the letters from my first love and laugh at how intense everything felt back then. I’ll look at the pictures from my 2020 summer fling and feel grateful for those two months we spent together. I’ll find the plush bear my ex won for me at the arcade and laugh at how he didn’t stop trying until he finally got it. I’ll read the note written on a kitchen paper my situationship left me saying how he really appreciates me and remember how he was actually full of shit and was definitely lying.

It doesn’t hurt anymore now.

The ticket stubs and photos don’t make me sad. Instead, they remind me that I’ve lived a lot of lives already — that I’ve loved, lost, and still always found my way back to myself, even when I thought I couldn’t.

Everyone heals differently. I used to think healing meant blocking, deleting, pretending they never existed. But for me, healing has become something even better— to accept, to reminisce, to appreciate, and to look back without flinching (maybe cringing is ok). To have stories to tell, souvenirs to smile at, and proof of the ways I’ve healed, grown, and certainly survived.

My Ex-Box has never really been about heartbreak or missing my exes. It’s always been about proof that I’ve changed, that I’ve grown, that I’ve outlived every love that once felt like the end of the world. It doesn’t make me upset  anymore, not even a bit; it just reminds me that I made it.

I often wonder if I’ll ever get rid of the Ex-Box.
If I’ll ever empty it.
Or if I’ll stop adding stuff to it altogether.

And what it would mean if I finally didn’t need it anymore.