It’s four months after the shittest break-up I’ve ever had and, true to my style and my libra rising, I’m terrified that I’ll never fall in love again. That the relationship that has just ended was the exception to the rule and that the feeling of butterflies in my stomach (I know, gross, just haven’t found a better metaphor) is a thing of the past. It doesn’t help that I’ve gone on dates in the last couple of months that were fine. Not great, not horrible. Fine. Yes: an ok date is the worst case scenario for someone who lives in absolute terms like me. Just give me a horror date for the sake of the story or give me that all-consuming-cannot-think-about-anything-else-but-you type of infatuation. Anyway, I digress, but that’s my context: a disenchanted, heartbroken me in a different country. I’m 15,000 km away from a house I’d do anything to not get back to. A new hotel room similar to the many others I’ve been in, except this one has a beautiful view. I feel empty but in a good way –
