Romans & histoires How To Unlove

Love's a weird, sticky thing, isn't it? Like spilled soda on a keyboard—you can wipe at it forever, but some sugar always lingers. I tried to 'unlove' someone after a messy breakup by binge-watching 'BoJack Horseman' (great show, terrible life advice) and adopting three houseplants named after Tolkien dwarves. Distraction helps, but love doesn’t vanish on command. It morphs. Sometimes into nostalgia, other times into a quiet respect for the past. The real choice isn’t stopping love; it’s deciding what to build around it.

I read this line in 'Norwegian Wood' about grief being love with nowhere to go. That stuck. You can’t delete feelings, but you can repurpose them—channel that energy into art, friendships, or learning to bake sourdough (my loaves are still bricks, but hey). The heart’s not a light switch. It’s more like a compost bin: messy, slow, but eventually fertile ground for something new.

Breakups hit like a ton of bricks, and that lingering love can feel impossible to shake. What helped me was reframing how I viewed memories—instead of romanticizing the past, I started writing down the petty annoyances, the compromises that drained me, even the way they chewed too loudly. Sounds silly, but it rewired my brain over time. I also threw myself into hobbies that had nothing to do with our shared history—learning pottery forced me to focus on something messy and new, while binge-watching trashy reality TV (no judgment!) gave my emotions a dumb, cathartic outlet.

Distance is key—not just physical, but digital. Mute their socials, archive old chats, and resist the urge to ‘check in.’ Replacing rituals tied to them helps too; if you always called at 8 PM, use that time to phone a friend or take a walk. The ache fades slower than you’d hope, but one day you’ll realize you forgot to miss them.

The ache of losing someone you love is like a storm that lingers, refusing to pass. I’ve been there—staring at my phone, hoping for a message that never comes, replaying memories like a broken record. What helped me was leaning into the pain instead of running from it. I journaled every ugly thought, cried to sad playlists, and even wrote unsent letters. Sounds cliché, but it works. Time doesn’t heal; it’s what you do with that time. I picked up pottery, something tactile to channel my frustration, and slowly, the clay became more than just a distraction—it became a metaphor for reshaping myself.

Surrounding myself with friends who didn’t offer platitudes but just listened was key. One night, we binge-watched 'BoJack Horseman', and its raw take on self-sabotage mirrored my own struggles. Fiction has a way of making you feel less alone. Eventually, I realized moving on isn’t about forgetting—it’s about carrying the love forward, just differently. Now, when I think of them, it’s with gratitude for the growth they unknowingly gave me.