I haven’t taken a bath since the breakup, because I didn’t want to rack up my friends’ water bills. So when I sink into the soothingly warm water tonight, I relish it. Or at least, I try to. But no matter how much I stay submerged or scrub away my dead skin, I can’t change the fact that I gave up seven years of my life for someone who seemingly had a change of heart overnight. I can’t change the fact that just weeks after my disastrous and traumatic breakup, I ran into my college ex. And I can’t change the fact that she and I will have to see each other regularly until we finish working on “Modern Love in Focus.”

If Celeste and I weren’t already exes, it’d be like a meet-cute of a rom-com. But instead, it’s more like a car crash. An accidental encounter between two people who would rather not have been at the same place at the same time.

When the water grows cold, I get up from the tub, dry off, and change into pajamas. Then I slip into my childhood bed with my phone in one hand. Like I’ve been doing for the past few weeks, I search for and apply to “roommate wanted” listings in the city. There’s no way I can afford to live by myself in San Francisco, so this is the best I can do for now.

After I run out of listings to apply for, I end up flipping through people’s Instagram Stories and feel a slight sting of FOMO when I see Kiara, Val, and their other friends at a queer Friendsgiving party. They all look so happy, an emotion that seems foreign to me right now.

I exit out of my friends’ stories to go to my own profile. Tragically, my last post was a picture of James and me laughing together while wine tasting in Napa with his parents in October. James’s mom took this picture. And both our faces—mine a little flushed from the alcohol—are so bright and cheery.

My big, gaudy engagement ring shines bright in the sunlight.

I pinch my phone screen with both hands to zoom into the picture, scrutinizing James’s smile. It looks so genuine, which ironically makes me feel better about my situation. At least it isn’t obvious that James wanted to end our relationship. Or that he had any thoughts of doing so at all. Is it my fault that my ex either has the skills of an Emmy Award–winning actor or had a drastically sudden change of heart? My head hurts thinking about how, two weeks after this photo was taken, James would become just another ex.

I tap on the three dots in the top right corner and delete the photo.