Like all good relationships, this one started out of boredom. I was restless, and he was craving human company. Locked doors and hidden tower stairways beckoned. Dark paths through wooded forests called irresistibly to two kids blessed with endless curiosity and cursed with endless wanderlust.

It was day one, and I was already falling for him.

Hanging out soon turned into procrastinating on problem sets by talking for hours, trying out all the bubble tea options that Princeton had to offer, and wandering through the neighborhoods to Westminster Choir College. He walked me back to my room and tried to comfort me on election night as I delivered a hysterical rant punctuated by moments of disbelief. We slipped from friendship into dating, and at the beginning it felt easy.

We were neither physical nor alcoholic, but on day one I fell asleep next to him and his fever. I somehow convinced him, and he somehow convinced me, that it would all be okay, because love.

On day two, we admitted to personal uncertainties and declared love. He picked a best man for our wedding. I agreed. He took time to comfort me, and we kept going on walks together. We still felt effortless.

I don’t know when I started feeling like he was a weight to drag around. “Come on, get out of your room.” “You need to be social.” “You need to come with me.” When we started dating, he stopped trying. It was just me, asking for his time again and again. I didn’t think this was where our relationship would go, but he mattered to me. I stuck with it, but it didn’t matter anymore. Something had already shattered because love, the justification that once meant the world to me.

“Joined by the bond of love,” that’s how Buttercup described it in “The Princess Bride.” She said, "You cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords.” But perhaps love was breakable.

It has been two breakups since, and the tears have finally stopped. It’s funny how much crying I remember, now that I’m writing this. In my room, in his room, in empty classrooms, in stairwells, in his arms — those moments were as much a part of that relationship as the cuddling was.

I’ve found that it’s easier to brush off sadness with anger. To push away sobs with a stubborn, fiery rage. Crying to my friends and pouring out what was left of my heart summoned an inner wrath that I rode on for the first few days. But when it eventually died down, I found I had no one but myself to fight. I found that it doesn’t matter if someone else thinks you’re not worth fighting for, as long as you still believe in fighting for yourself.

I like to tell myself that I’ve prevailed, but I’m going to give it a little more time before I declare victory. There’s no nice, neat, conclusive, I-learned-from-heartbreak-type ending in this story. No redemptive fairy tale happily ever after. Just more classes and more things to keep myself busy as I let the memories fade.

The healing has certainly begun, though because I’ve realized that ‘ignorantly ever after’ doesn’t last forever. I still tenaciously hold on to the belief that purest of love can be attained. Someday. Just not now.