If tears were currency, I would've been rich. I cry in the car, in the bathroom at work and school, on the phone with Angie, and on her lap when she's home, but I cry the most in the privacy of my room. It's weird. Abnormal even. Since childhood, I've had a hard time crying. Sometimes if the feelings were running out of space in my chest, I'd make myself cry with a sad movie or book. The week after my breakup is the second time in my adult life with no need for that trick. The first time I wept so much was the months after Dad's diagnosis.

Then, during a visit to the oncologist to find out the results of his scans and colonoscopy, the doctor told Dad his cancer had metastasized into his liver. My heart stopped as my tears started. Anything would send me bawling like an upset toddler. I was supposed to be the pillar of strength for him, yet my dad ended up drying my eyes, calming me down, and staying strong for both of us until the very end. The return of the waterworks raises all sorts of questions. Are these tears for Xavier? For Dad? For myself? Or for the snowball of big and little hurts picking up speed set on flattening me.

Whenever I think I hit rock bottom, and my life can't suck any worse, it proves me wrong. Mom doesn't stop her morning texts and ramps up her efforts starting to leave me voicemails. I should've blocked her number and been done with her. That'd be the sane thing to do, but I don't care anymore. The fight's gone out of me. I don't even have the energy to get angry. I drag myself through the days, but everything outside of basic human functions on autopilot is beyond me.

I want out. To abandon the daily responsibilities and leave, fly away, start fresh, be someone new somewhere new, and be free of the expectations of others. Out of Chicago. Forget about my failures. I could be a brand new Amélie. An Amélie who has more than one person to call when she has something great or awful to share.

My resolve to make an effort, to pay attention to my classe,s and to resume writing my thesis falls flat. I continue to do nothing more than get my butt into the seat for class. Professor Hopkins tolerated my mood last week but today when I fail to turn in the next chapter of my thesis, she insists I spend additional office hours with her.

"I'm concerned about your progress, Amélie." She covers my hand with her bony one, skin so dry it resembles parchment paper. "Your defense is the first week of December and your first draft should be done already. You've made so much progress this summer after the setbacks with your Dad's death. We all understood and supported you then. You got the extension. You will not get another one."

"Yes, M'am."

"This can not be the repeat of the spring semester. Because if it is, you will not graduate. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Now tell me if you've heard from any of the schools in France."

"Yes. Four out of five set up interviews."

"How wonderful. You should've told me that. Is getting ready for those what's keeping you busy?"

I shouldn't lie to her. But I do.

"It's part of it. But I'll be working on the thesis. Soon."

The first interview with the University in Dijon goes wrong the minute I call into the conference line. I struggle to answer the basic questions the panel poses. I mess up the name of my thesis. I choke when they ask me why I chose their school, because I've no recollection of any particular reason. The University I want to get into is Bretagne-Loire. Their research is in the areas I'm pursuing. and access to the castles and libraries in the region is what interests me. The rejection email that comes the same day from Dijon is not a surprise.

In the evening I move through my shift in a daze, thankful my emotions aren't raw anymore. Chris walks with me to the locker room after closing the store. Since the breakup we're not playing our game anymore, and our banter hasn't quite returned.

"Did I miss Mr. Sweatpants?" asks Chris.

"Huh, right, I haven't seen him either." My internal drama is the sole thing I'm paying attention to. The outside world has to wait.

"Why would he disappear like that?"

"I wouldn't call missing one day of grocery shopping disappearing." I don't know why this should be any of my concern. Ben's recipes were a welcome distraction from my boring routine, but I have trouble following the basic daily tasks. Ben and the recipes need someone with a more stable life. Someone who cares about things like food.

While I'm at work, Xavier stops by my place, removes his things, and drops off the extra set of keys with my super. True to his word, he doesn't contact me but immediately changes his relationship status to 'single'.

I know because I stalk him online which is not good for my mood. In the posts and videos from several parties, and in multiple selfies with girls, he appears to have a great time. It's him blocking me, that puts a stop to my trolling routine.

For all my promises to Professor Hopkins, I do none of the required reading or writing. The stacks of books lie unopened on my desk with the computer serving as an expensive paperweight. The Real Housewives all over the US keep me company. I run out of frozen dinners to microwave.