Hop on the bus, Gus. State your truth, Ruth. Admit you don’t actually want this, Chris. And all of the other ways you could possibly rhyme with a reason. Just get on with it. Whether it’s with melodrama or not is completely up to you. But by god, rip off the Band-Aid and breathe. See? That wasn’t so bad. It will be, at first. But then the veil is pulled back, the one you almost wore but didn’t, and all that was behind it the whole time is still there. You’ll re-familiarize yourself with what you couldn’t see but already knew. Get to know you as just you, as you were when you arrived, in your purest form. It’s like meeting a stranger you’ve known your whole life. They’ll be exactly as you remembered and totally different from before. Just knock on the door and ask if they’re home. It’s not an easy task, but you know what they say about easy tasks. (Reader, they never amount to anything great on their own.)

Back to the 50 ways. They are all different, but most start with a realization—dull, gradual, and then sharp. Write it down. Phone a friend, a smart one. About one hundred times if you need to. Test your theories in a science lab and write a report so that you can refer back to it. Don’t take the money — you never wanted it anyway — but do run.

Then comes the plan, Stan. You don’t actually need one, but a semblance of one is useful. Next time you’re alone, close your eyes and dream about the semblance of the plan — the life you almost never had but always wanted and knew wanted you back. The place and the people, the ones cheering you on because they love you and they believe you can do it and have no doubt you will land because you have the landing gear. You’ll take off and land in Texas first. That was your exit strategy, but it was never your final destination. You knew that.

From there, keep going with inertia. You can go anywhere as long as it’s with forward motion. You’ll have to pull over along the way for a multitude of reasons. You’ll stop in your tracks in awe of what you hadn’t imagined was possible, realize you took a detour, need to buy some water and sour gummies, grow tired and surely feel alone. But as I said, with forward motion. And don’t turn around, whatever you do. Remember, we’re leaving the lover, that’s the whole thing. You can’t arrive without leaving.

50 Ways To Find A New One

First things first: Did you leave the lover? No good love story starts until you leave, transcend, grow, hurt, heal, swim, waltz, collapse, emerge. All that comes with leaving. If you haven’t, return to the previous page.

Otherwise, if you’ve found yourself in Springs, New York during a blizzard in February, then you’re in the right place. It’s been a journey, I know, but look at you! Did you stop along the way like I said? I hope you sat in the window seat. I hope you left Texas after exactly 30 days. I hope you went back to the apartment and made it your own. I hope you took the GMAT. I hope you did every word problem in the Manhattan Prep book just to solve something. I hope you jumped into the Pacific Ocean every morning. I hope you questioned everything. I hope you changed your mind about anything you knew before this. I hope you slept in a tent with your childhood friends in Colorado. I hope you inhaled the warm, dry mountain air for five weeks straight. I hope you swam in the Blue Lagoon. I hope you cried alone on the Fourth of July. I hope you got mad. I hope you laughed. I hope you drank wine in Prospect Park in August. I hope you felt the summer air on your skin because it wants you to know it’s all different now. I hope you proved them wrong. I hope you learned not to care. I hope you connected the dots and memorized the constellations.

I hope you went back to California in November. I hope you thanked San Francisco and understood it’s part of you, now and forever. I hope you drove to Mount Tam in a fury and watched the golden light as it promised you something. I hope you always come back to it. I hope you moved through the fog. I hope you fell back into sadness every so often and climbed out of it just because now you knew you could. I hope you packed the U-Haul. I hope you moved to New York. I hope it welcomed you home. I hope the city lights shone into your window at night as if they wanted you to know they see you. I hope you left behind everything else that was worth leaving. I hope you started doing all of the things you always wanted to do. I hope when it all clicked and the rhythm was in sync you felt it in your bones. I hope you did everything you could to find that rhythm and keep it humming along.

Now repeat. Repeat all of the above. Not in the same exact way, but similarly. If you get stuck, refer to the science report, the writings, the phone calls. The studying, the swimming, the light on Mount Tam and the lights in your living room at night. It will all take you to where you need to go, where you’ll find what you’re looking for. Don’t worry about the rest.