Writing by Sophie Rose // photograph by Rossana Battisti
It’s a very special
And very specific
Type of lonely
The loneliness of a city that has been
Shattered by swollen from soaked in heartbreak
(Mine)
Eight
Earth-stopping lung-shattering chasms
The first
In my bedroom
Koreatown
Halloween
My brand new orange comforter burned my eyes
The only thing I could look at
As I found out
Slowly
Quickly
Not sure how to measure time
(Violated
Physically, viscerally)
That the guy I liked was a rapist
Another
In a dingy cafe
Parkdale
Almost Christmas
With a suitcase of dirty clothes
En route to the laundromat
A recent ex, a beloved ex
In the middle of a long message
Admitted he “didn’t love me,” not really
The two and a half years i’d loved him
Flashed bright, too bright, and went grey somewhere between my heart and my mind
Again
On the 60 Bus in the July heat
Queen West
Getting a text from a man I’d slept with
The first one since the bad one
He had fallen asleep afterwards, in my arms, watching a movie
Tattoos, rings, bearded, cigarette smell and long dark lashes and suddenly he seemed gentle My heart had swelled
On the bus a ping
He had found someone else he
“was actually excited about”
I got off early and cried on a corner
It was 8:47am and I walked the rest of the way to work
My eyes were itchy
I sweat through my shirt
Boom, crack, crack, boom
In a different cafe, January
A nice one
Little India
Getting stood up by a guy I trusted
Working, working so hard to bring him to me
Because he was special
We were special together
I knew it, he knew it, he didn’t want it
Back in the same cafe
Months later
A voice note
“Don’t ever do something for me and expect anything in return”
Uncaring
Curt
Cursed cafe
Then
An itchy red couch
Corktown
My birthday cake in hand
March
Someone who looked at me like stars shone out of my eyes
Someone who leaned into me
Needed me
When he was grieving
Someone I adored
Told me he was falling in love with me
And could not, would not be in love with anyone right now
The whiplash
The breakup / the romantic moonlit makeout hangout / the drunk lovey texts from mexico / the ‘friend’ hangout / the hugs at work / the ‘you won’t lose me’s / the telling me you couldn’t come to my play / showing up to my play / glaring at me at my play / the radio silence / the giddy smiles seeing each other months later / the cold, robotic messages / the radio fucking silence
After that
Walking home from the gym in the dark
Riverside
September
Messages on messages on messages
Mean, the type of mean someone can only be if they don’t have to
Look someone in the face
From an actor I’d slept with, trusted, admired
An arrogant, talented asshole
Who hated being out of power
Who hated being called out
I called him out and he called me jealous, broken, unattractive
Who told me no one would love me as long as I was still healing
But the worst two weren’t men
One
Financial District
My closest Toronto friend
Told me in no uncertain terms
That she cared more about her pal having a bad boy toy
Than she did about my being raped
It’s not the same, she said
This boy toy wouldn’t break up with his girlfriend for her pal
Who was having an affair with him
Explained how garbage this boy was, how trash, how she wanted to kill him
In the next breath
Explained away my abuser’s behaviour, his actions, his intentions
Questioned mine
Because she knew him! He would never! Am I sure it happened the way I said? He just made a mistake, though. He’s a good guy.
As though these types of things never come from
“Good guys”
Two
Leslieville
A former roommate
A current soul sister
Sent me an email that I read on a patio
An explosion of emotion, a slew of accusations
How bad a person I am, how bad a friend I was
How we weren’t close, like I thought we were
How constantly I insulted and upset her
How I misjudged our relationship
How I disgust her now
How four years of best friendship
Mean nothing
A city that has been
(Yes, also swimming in love but)
Soaked in heartbreak
Can never fully be redeemed
Can never truly feel like home
Can it?
