It was 1998, I was at Victoria station, London, inside a phone booth, listening to my then-girlfriend back in the US tell me that she was seeing someone else. The tightening in my throat, my abdomen.
I walked to the train, sat down in my seat facing London, gray.
The train jerked, slowly pulled away, gathered speed. Felt a tear, two. And to this day, I remember what I thought then as London grew smaller and smaller. I feel sad yes, I feel shitty, yes, but the fact that I feel means I’m alive, and I can feel while watching London fade and I’m alive. And that, in itself, has beauty.