The truth about the breakup wasn't that our connection snapped; it was that the wire got tangled, and I realized I was pulling the heavier end. He called it a tragedy. I called it a much-needed amputation. Still, every few months, when the moon hit a certain angle, he'd text. A vague "Hope you're well" that was less about me and more about tossing a stone into my quiet, single pond to see if the ripples were still impressive.

This time, he tried a different tactic. He sent a picture. Not of us—thank the universe for small favors—but of a sailboat skimming impossibly clear turquoise water. "Just dropped anchor," the caption read. He was trying to invoke longing, trying to make me think, Oh, what a life I could have had. But I only laughed. The photo was too staged, too perfect. It lacked the grit of reality, much like his personality. The boat was clearly rented, and the filter made the water look radioactive.

He was desperately trying to sell me on a life of luxury and leisure, but all that photo proved was that he was, quite literally, an island. Alone, self-centered, and utterly surrounded by things he couldn't actually manage (like that tiny sail). I looked at the picture one last time, appreciating the forced beauty, before typing a one-word reply. Rentals. Then I blocked him, enjoying the fact that my life was now less of a yacht and more of a deeply satisfying, self-propelled speedboat, heading nowhere near his ridiculous, lonely shore.