We broke up.

Like most failed relationships, I don’t know exactly where and when did the downfall start. It was a long time coming. It was an addiction, an obsession that was eating me away (no pun intended). I turned to it at every opportunity I could get, and it would return the affection with equal zest.

Then, I went for my yearly visit to Pakistan. Things got rather difficult there. The unexpected levels of pollution choked me, until I could neither breath nor indulge in its mouth-watering offerings, pulling me down to pits of sadness and despair. Matters escalated when the distance between my beloved and I grew beyond seven days. It was the longest we had stayed distant. I would sneak a peek from a distance, hoping for the love to resurface, but it was lukewarm at best. I willed myself to attempt contact, for old time’s sake, but it did not work. The love lost was nowhere to be found.

Soon, resignation set it. I didn’t want to try reconciliation any more. I was ready to give up. The fact that it was an abusive, obsessive relationship from the beginning was a fact that I couldn’t look away from any more. It had done a lot more damage than good, and it was time to acknowledge it.

By the third week, there was a paradigm shift as we realised that we need to co-exist, whether we like it or not. At best, we can try to be amicable, and keep the environment pleasant, despite the tremendous shift in our feelings.

We sat down together once again, touched, devoured to the point where our newly set boundaries would allow, and then left. This was to be the new norm.

Indulge, with hesitance. Love, with restraint.

I never thought this day would come, when I would walk away from food with a shrug. Lesson learnt – never say never.

Had someone told me that this morning I would trash the jar filled with M&Ms because it repulsed me, I would have laughed. But not anymore.

Yes, we broke up. Food and I. We might get naughty now and then, but that steady love has been buried.

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