I've sat with thousands of people navigating exactly this territory. The patterns are remarkably consistent. Your thumb, a ghost with a mind of its own, scrolling through the digital graveyard of your past relationship. It’s two in the morning, the world is mercifully asleep, but you are wide awake, bathed in the cold, blue light of your phone, a phantom limb reaching for a connection that has been decisively severed. You swore you wouldn’t do this tonight. You made a promise to that raw, wounded part of yourself. And yet, here you are. Your heart is a frantic bird beating against the cage of your ribs, a sickening lurch in your gut with every photo you see of them. Of their new life. The one you’re not in. Each post, each tag, each smiling face is a fresh twist of the knife in a wound that refuses to close. You feel it in your body, don’t you? The shallow breath caught high in your chest, the cold sweat on your palms, the hollow ache that radiates from your solar plexus like a dark sun. This isn’t healing. This is a ritual of self-immolation. You are willingly, methodically, setting yourself on