When I came home late that night, the first thing I did was message my boyfriend in France: I’m breaking up with you.

He was devastated. It had come almost from out of the blue. I told him I had joined a church and we needed to break up.

He called my mom and said he thought I had just joined a cult.

In my mind, I was done with him, done with that whole chapter of my life. No one was going to change my mind.

In the next few days, I vaguely remember a web of texts between him, me, his friend in Paris, and his dad in Guadeloupe, as he overdosed on pills and ended up in the hospital.

I was riding an interstellar high and barely paid attention to such trivial matters.

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Note: Of course, my ex-boyfriend attempting suicide is no trivial matter. The narrative reflects my mindset at the time, and my impulsive and rash behavior that I later came to recognize as symptoms of mental illness.