Chapter 1

I finished the project at two in the morning and reached for my phone to ask my boyfriend, Jack, to celebrate over dinner.

Then I remembered we hadn’t spoken in nearly two weeks.

Our daily message streak had been dead for three years. The last thing he’d sent was: *Don’t be mad about that little thing, Anna. I have to help my grad student prep for a competition. Don’t wait up. I’ll bring you milk tea.*

He’d been busy helping the young woman. I’d been busy working late, racing deadlines, and squeezing onto the subway.

I’d forgotten to reply. I’d also forgotten what our last fight had even been about.

Maybe I’d faded out of his life without either of us noticing.

I went to the hot-pot place we used to love. The server recognized me and looked past my shoulder.

“Just me,” I said. “We broke up.”

The words came easily. That surprised me.

She seated me at our old booth. Across from me sat an empty place setting.

When Jack and I had just started dating, I’d sent him a meme ranking loneliness. Eating hot pot alone was number eight.

“You’ll never get that far,” he’d texted. “I’ll always be there to cook your tripe.”

For years, we’d eaten hot pot together. Then I’d started doing everything else alone: commuting, working late, birthdays, anniversaries—even trying on wedding dresses.

I lowered a slice of beef into the bubbling broth.

Did this count as breaking up?