“The way to turn an ex-lover into a friend is to never stop loving them, to know that when one phase of a relationship ends, it can transform into something else. It is to acknowledge that love is both a constant and a variable at the same time.”
―Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
I had a difficult summer. I apologize for my six-month hiatus (if you noticed). I had articles planned and many written, but somehow nothing worked out. I think I still need to process some things before I can move on to more academic topics. Since I tend to process by writing, I thought I would share that with you. This article is a little different from the more analytical ones that I have posted in the past. Hopefully, you’ll like it anyway.
I think a lot about permanence because I have a chronic fear of change. Despite this fear, I have been changing things a lot in the past few years, partly in hopes that I will acclimatize to the discomfort, and partly because life is rarely stagnant when you’re twenty. My first big change was moving to Montreal for university. I was on a decent dose of Zoloft, and I remember feeling absolutely nothing. No fear, no excitement, just acceptance. I don’t know if it was genuine peace or emotional sedation, but it felt like progress.
And the move ended up being great, actually. I’ve always feared change because of the inevitable loss that comes with it. I remember that when I graduated high school, I was vaguely terrified of losing my old life. But I also knew that I had already outgrown it — shoving my feet in those childhood sneakers would never make them fit again.
The second major change came at the beginning of this summer, when I broke up with my partner of over six years. That change has been far more difficult. I was lucky enough to have an incredible ex who just wasn’t right for me anymore, and we had a very empathetic breakup.1 I wrote an article about it in May, but the whole thing ended up feeling too personal to post. Instead, I want to talk about relationships in general.
But first, I have some things to say about quantum theory. Since my former partner is a scientist, I cannot think about love without considering quantum physics.
In physics, there is an emergent property called quantum entanglement, which occurs when two particles have interdependent quantum states. This phenomenon is easiest to imagine using physical properties like spin, the angular momentum of a particle. When two particles are entangled, their spins always equal zero: if the spin of one particle is up, the other is automatically down. The state of one of the two particles depends on the state of the other, and that correlation will hold even when they're separated by vast distances.
Critically, entanglement depends on distance. Many particles interact when close together, bouncing off each other and reacting, but only entangled particles remain connected when separate. To become entangled, particles must be in the same place at some point. They can come from the same original molecule, or interact via something passing between them. Either way, you can't arbitrarily entangle two particles with no common history, who have never shared space or become interdependent.
Tragically, entanglement is not a permanent state. Decoupling is the tendency for entangled particles to disentangle due to interaction with their surroundings. After all, relationships are systems, and systems are dynamic. Entangled states can disappear or collapse when the environment changes even slightly. When particles are separated long enough, they can start losing their connection
The analogy of quantum entanglement obviously works best with a romantic partnership. We are often told that significant others complete us. Perfect pairs function as if derived from the same original object, which is exactly how physicist Thomas Vidick describes the behaviour of entangled particles. This idea reminds me of a Greek myth in Plato’s Symposium, which says that Zeus split the first humans into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives searching for their other halves.
In reality, however, entanglement is not a matter of genesis but of process. I think of all the people whom I would consider soulmates of some kind: my first roommate in college, my brother, childhood friends, my ex. We might have been born with complementary traits, but our compatibility was also generated by time spent in the same place, by things shared, through connection. Our relationship was not Fate, not an act of God or Science. It was an ongoing process.
As with molecules, when you share so much time and experience with another being, they begin to contain parts of yourself. My ex holds six years of my history, ages thirteen to nineteen, arguably the most transformative time of my life. I was so scared that when our relationship ended, I would lose all those years of entanglement, the history, the years of knowing and being known.2 I feel the same about anyone I am close to; when I grow apart from a childhood friend, I feel like I lose the second half of so many memories. And there is loss again, the terrifying and inevitable consequence of change.
So when we broke up, I decided that nothing would change. We could be friends instead. Given the distance, we were basically already there. The plan was perfect: I wouldn’t have to face my fear of being alone, and we could both be free without sacrificing any closeness. Our relationship was already so different from how it had been in the past; I thought that it would be a relief to acknowledge it and correct the label. Of course, I was being delusional.
My ex and I remain in contact, and it’s bittersweet, to say the least. When we spend time together, they inevitably do one of those particular heart-stringing things, and there is that heavy pang of love, newly accompanied by sorrow. Going no contact used to confuse me: I didn’t understand how you could ever want to be away from someone you loved so much. I thought that being broken up would make you even more hungry for any piece of your former partner.
I had no idea that hurt could make me close up inside. There was a new urge to protect myself, to run away from that tender feeling because it was a reminder of the loss, the innumerable ways that things have changed, the fact that they will never be the same again. I am a stupidly unguarded person, but I felt a wall building.
Except I wanted to remain friends. How could I possibly rationalize subjecting myself to that hurt?
The answer came when I realized that it hurts because of the love. It hurts because I do care, because the tenderness is alive and kicking in my chest, because the feelings are about something worth saving.
This article isn’t advice for anyone other than myself. I can’t in good conscience advocate texting your ex, or seeking out conversations that feel like someone slipping a steak knife into the meat between your ribs. But going through this process, I wanted to set a precedent for how I handle my relationships in the future. I just worry about seeing connections as disposable, thinking that we should end things when they start to become challenging. I love certainty, so I understand the impulse to name an issue and solve it with distance. Obviously, it’s okay to recognize that some people just shouldn’t be in your life. That might be the easiest solution, but it isn’t always the best one. For someone terrified of loss, it was a revelation to know that the antidote to losing someone is to decide not to lose them, even if it hurts sometimes.
I decided that I don’t want my life to be about avoiding pain, but rather about choosing what pain is worthwhile. And it is worth keeping the people I love around, in the present tense, building new fondness over the ache of the past. The love we have for others is a gift, one that I would like to keep giving.
Our universe is no good with permanence anyway. Matter exists in a state of perpetual change and reconfiguration. The closest thing to permanence is letting things change, letting the entanglement dissipate and loving people anyway, however you are able.
Even now, when we talk to each other, the conversation is so kind, productive and diplomatic that it sounds like a mix between a political negotiation and a therapy session. It’s weird, but it works.
Once, after we broke up, my ex and I were having a conversation and when I paused they said “one of the things I love most about you is the way you move your hands when you talk”. That really got me. That intimacy, that care and attention, is priceless.