Crying in front of a kebab shop

Of all the mildly humiliating moments in my life, this one might take gold. I was strutting down Rozengracht in my new pointy-toed kitten heels - the perfect blend of pain and aesthetic - when it suddenly felt like the sidewalk disappeared beneath me. (Which, to be fair, with the current state of Rozengracht, isn’t even that dramatic.)

I passed the kebab shop we once stumbled into. A late-night laugh, greasy fingers, the kind of moment that felt like love in its most unfiltered form. That night, he held me as I fell asleep, and I remember thinking: this is it. That quiet certainty that you’ll wake up next to someone for the rest of your life.

A little further down was the café that ended up being closed on one of our last “great days.” That’s what I call them now. The days we wandered the city with no plan, just eating, drinking, existing together. The first time we had a day like that, I fell for him completely. I wanted a hundred more. Maybe even a thousand.

But no one tells you how betrayal can scramble everything. Your memories, your judgment, your sense of self. Suddenly you’re standing in your apartment wondering if you hallucinated the whole relationship. It’s like buying a dress that felt perfect in the fitting room but somehow never fits the same again. You start questioning your taste. Your instincts. Whether you were ever right about any of it.

And now, I have to see him. Not hypothetically. Actually. This week, the first time we’ll be in the same space again - is at the exact same event where we had one of our first dates. Of course it is.

So here’s the question: do I go? Is it exposure therapy or emotional self-sabotage?
He told me I should allow myself to have fun. As if I could. As if either option would feel good. It’s like choosing between sulking at home with FOMO or trying to be okay while hoping I don’t cry in the bathroom - or worse in front of him. Neither feels like a win.

But the truth is, I don’t even know if I miss him. I think I miss the version of him from those easy days. The one who felt safe. The one who laughed with me in a kebab shop at 2AM. I miss the life I imagined with him, the one that almost happened.

But “almost” doesn’t count.

So yeah, I cried in front of that kebab shop. And I might still go to that party. Or I might stay home. That’s the thing about heartbreak - there’s no right answer. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just keep going. Past the memories. Past the could-have-beens.

Maybe one day those places will just be places again. But until then, I’ll wear the heels. I’ll feel the feelings. Sometimes healing isn’t glamorous, it looks like smeared mascara and extra garlic sauce.