Something tragic happened to me recently. I got my funny little heart broken. Tragedy is subjective, no? I think so. It wasn’t tragic enough to kill me—now that would’ve been tragic, but also kind of funny in a pathetically poetic way. No, this was the everyday, garden-variety kind of tragic where you start questioning every life choice, have a cute little meltdown mid-work, cry on fancy hotel room floors, and stalk their (private) Instagram from the outside. Not the life-ending kind, but more of a self-inflicted, dehumanizing kind of pain. 
 

Not my first rodeo, either. I remember the first one because it felt weird more than sad at first. Like, “Why does it feel like I have a hole in my heart when I literally don’t?” It takes a while to hit—oh, right, you’re broken up. That’s when the clichés roll in: the pleading, the crying, the denial—all six stages of grief, but somehow sadder. But eventually, you come out of it, until you’re in it again. Only this time, you know the only way through is through. 

Still from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

So, how do you claw your way out of this rut now? First, you whore yourself out on dating apps. Swipe right like it’s your job, try to flirt with friends, and maybe even attempt to cash in on that old “If we’re both single by 30, we’ll get together” pact—only to get shut down with a casual, “Shut up, Niraj, you’re not dying.” 
 

Men have a funny way of dealing with pain, you realise. It doesn’t hurt right away—it seeps in slowly, in oddly comical ways. Like that time, I downed a whole bottle of whiskey at a colleague-turned-friend’s house, had a good cry, passed out, and woke up to Miley Cyrus wrecking the wrecking ball inside my skull. The hangover, which now feels lethal at 29, makes you wonder: does the colleague regret the friendship now? Mortified, you vow to disappear from social life for a while, choosing solitary confinement as your next big move. 

Still from The Worst Person in the World (2021)

But then too, heartbreak feels kind of funny. Suddenly, you linger on the saddest part of every song. You gaslight yourself daily, like adding too much salt to each meal, thinking, “Hmm, maybe I did overreact.” Weekends get weirdly empty—you had something to do, you had someone to do, and now, you have nothing but time. What do you do with that time? Join a Lego club? Hit the gym? Take up jazz? MMA? Pfft, as if. You’re not the kind of person who lives in a postcard. You wish you were, but you know you’re not. The simplicity of it feels like a joke you can’t take seriously. 
 

You try to reinvent yourself. Maybe, you’ve always been a ukulele person. No? How about a yoga one? Get up at 6 am? Screw that. Maybe you could be an “I don’t really care about dating” person, but deep down, you know you’re not. “You’re not that person, Niraj,” your friends remind you. You roll your eyes, not because you don’t believe them, but because vulnerability now scares you. You don’t want to be seen—well, not seen as you are right now. 

Still from Marriage Story (2019)

So, you try to reinvent, move on with life. Dye your hair? Sure. Actually, no—fucking yikes, big mistake. Your head is now orange. You tell yourself you’ll start reading again, pick up one of those books, read three sentences, go back on Instagram, read three sentences, go back on Instagram, read three sentences, go back on Instagram. Let’s be real, you get about ten pages in, feel the weight of existential dread, and go back on Instagram. 
 

And there's a certain wisdom that comes with age—or so they say. You become a bit of a motivational guru to your friends. You say things like, “Honestly, I think it was for the best,” or “It’s all about the journey, you know?” to which they reply, “Yeah, okay, but I was asking if you want to go to Abu Dhabi for Coldplay.” You Google things like “How to stop thinking about someone” at 3 AM and scroll through Reddit threads that are half comforting, half horrifying. It’s like holding a therapy session with strangers, but nobody’s qualified. 

Still from Perfect Days (2023)

You even try that whole “working on yourself” thing—going to therapy because that’s what modern-day self-awareness demands. You sit across from a therapist, spilling your soul while trying not to sound like a walking cliché. And in between all the insightful breakthroughs, there’s that lingering thought: “Am I paying Rs 2000 an hour to talk about this person?” — “Am I still audible, Niraj?” asks the therapist. 
 

But slowly, you get tired. Not of them, but of the act of being heartbroken. It’s exhausting to be sad all the time, to keep replaying the same scenarios as a pathetic 2000s rom-com white boy. Life isn’t really a montage. The initial drama eventually dies, and that’s when you start to listen—actually listen—to what your ex was trying to tell you. And suddenly, you ask yourself, “Was I the toxic one here?” The thought stings more than you’d like to admit. 

Still from Past Lives (2023)

And then, somewhere in the haze of introspection and bad decisions, you reach a point where you’re okay with it. With yourself. With heartbreak. It’s not this big revelation that slaps you across the face like in the movies; it’s quieter, more like a gradual acceptance that heartbreak is just... life. It’s not a one-time ticket to existential dread, but a recurring guest you’ve learned to entertain. 
 

You start finding humour in the absurdity of it all—the tearful nights out, the unhinged swiping, even the awkward “photos of you and so-and-so” your phone uses to torment you. You realise that heartbreak doesn’t have to define you, but it can be a funny little chapter in the longer, messier book of your life.  
 

It’s like, maybe you don’t have to be “over it” in some triumphant, Instagrammable way. Maybe you just have to be okay with being a little bit broken, a little bit lost, and a little bit willing to laugh about it. And it’s not a performance. It’s just the truth. Because somewhere along the way, you learned that it’s okay to be heartbroken. It’s okay to be you. And maybe, just maybe, it’s even kind of funny.