Gratitude Ledger
- grieving the loss
- emotional honesty
- self support
- breakup
- personal boundaries
After Sasha left, Ira had three things: a cactus, the charger from his laptop, and the feeling that someone owed her money for time.
The cactus stared from the windowsill as if to say, “I am not involved.” The charger lay on the table like a tiny piece of evidence. And the sense of debt was already serious.
- Four years, - she told the cactus. - FOUR. YEARS.
The cactus kept quiet because it was the only adult in the room.
***
They broke up, of course, “like adults.” They sat in a cafe. He ordered a raf, she ordered tea that smelled like freshly mopped floors.
Sasha took a deep breath, put on the face of “a man who has the right words,” and began:
- I respect you so much.
- I can tell, - Ira nodded.
- You are an important part of my path.
- Right, - she said. - Here we go.
And she was not wrong.
Sasha spoke flawlessly, citing lectures, podcasts, and Instagram carousels. He was twenty-nine, but he sounded like a man who had divorced three times and written a book about acceptance.
- Our roads…
- Just try to say “diverged,” - Ira warned.
- …well, they kind of… yeah, diverged. But I am grateful.
He looked at her with the soft sadness of someone who had already processed his guilt inside the notes app.
- You are the best person I have ever met.
- Just not best enough to live with me, right?
- This is not about you, - he said gently. - It is about me.
- Sure, - Ira agreed. - Are we splitting the check or is that also “not about me”?
They paid. He left beautifully: no shouting, no door slam, no “you just do not get me.” She stayed with the cup where the tea leaves spelled “fine.” Or so it seemed.
***
That night Ira fell into her phone, into an endless feed of other people’s wisdom. Words floated there: “let go with ease,” “thank the lesson,” “keep the light.” Somewhere in that glowing world of correct breakups, people wrote gratitude letters and rejoiced in love.
Ira reread the tips, looked at her swollen face in the black screen, and thought: “Great. So I am not only dumped. I am also underdeveloped. Amazing. Two for the price of one.”
She grabbed a notebook and wrote at the top: “THINGS TO THANK FOR.”
- Thanks for leaving before the mortgage.
- Thanks for decluttering my apartment. Now I can finally buy that ugly raccoon mug and keep it in plain sight.
- Thanks for talking so much about freedom while meaning only yours.
- Thanks for the fact that I lived with a walking podcast for four years.
By item five it suddenly felt lighter. The list turned out strange: half snark, half real memories.
- Thanks for the late-night talks.
- Thanks for that summer by the sea.
- Thanks for sitting silently beside me when my grandma died and not saying anything clever.
She looked at the page and admitted, “Okay, I cannot glow yet. But I no longer want to smash a plate across his face. Progress.”
***
A week later Ira visited her friend Dasha, who had her own breakup protocol. Dasha tossed exes’ T-shirts out the window, hosted champagne rituals, and called it “household exorcism.”
- Did you throw his stuff out? - Dasha asked.
- He only left a charger and a cactus, - Ira said. - The charger is useful. The cactus is sacred.
- Ira, - Dasha said sternly, - you cannot keep artifacts. They are portals. Men come back through them.
They drank. Dasha put on music that healed everything except hearing.
- You have to hate him, - she declared. - Otherwise you will never let go.
- Cannot do it, - Ira admitted.
- Then at least pretend.
- I already shared one actor between us, - Ira said. - Enough.
On the way home she realized that everywhere she turned, someone demanded something: be light, be grateful, pretend. Not a single option for “be as you are.” The cactus at home agreed.
***
A month later they ran into each other at the least flattering supermarket. Ira wore an overstretched sweater and carried a basket with three items: wine, cheese, cat food (no cat, but the discount was legendary).
Sasha held an avocado and a woman. The woman looked like a person who knows exactly what vitamin D is and how to feel her body.
- Ira? - he said.
- Yep, - she answered. - Hi.
The avocado stared at them like a witness in court.
- I think about us sometimes, - Sasha said with that same soft voice. - And…
- Do not, - she stopped him. - We both survived. That is already a win.
He smiled awkwardly.
- I want you to know that I really appreciate…
- I remember, - Ira said.
She said it without poison. Almost.
He nodded like someone who still quotes wise texts yet suddenly notices how badly they fit when you are holding an avocado.
- Are you angry? - he asked, unexpectedly honest.
- I am, - Ira shrugged. - In waves. Then it passes. Then it returns.
- You just look so calm…
- I washed my hair today, - she explained.
They both laughed a little. The vitamin-D woman smiled politely, understanding half at best.
- Okay, - Sasha said. - Take care.
- You too, - Ira answered. She paused. - And do not forget your charger, by the way. I feel like I am keeping you on a leash.
She walked out with the wine and cat food, but stopped by the door and turned back.
- Also, - she added, stepping closer. - That summer by the sea… thanks. Seriously.
He nodded. For a second his face carried no pose, no right words-just a tired human who felt lighter and heavier at once.
- Thank you too, - he said. No script this time.
***
That was the end of their civilized post-breakup. Not perfect. Not inspiring. Just real.
At home Ira set the wine on the table but did not drink it. Her eyes fell on the charger. That tiny piece of evidence still tied her apartment to his world.
She picked it up, turned it in her hands, and quietly got dressed. Evening was chilly and empty. Ira left the charger on the bench near her building where the grandmas usually sat, and next to it she stuck a small note with four words:
“Working. Simply not needed.”