I’m zipping up my coat as I say goodbye and I laugh, I think, at something you say, throwing my head back, a dull whack against the door frame. It hurts, but the surprise stings worse. Much like a child who stumbles and cries belatedly at the realization of losing control, the tears form and start to roll, though mine are cathartic—perhaps more a desire to collapse than not. Your bewildered face pleads for a different course of action. I walk into the bathroom where I give myself 30 seconds to fall apart and pull myself back together. 30 seconds, as it turns out, is an eternity for melodramatic rebirth. I emerge an entirely different person, one with slightly smudged eyeliner, but a sharper resolve to at least keep my shit together.