3. What In The Mamma Mia?!
WHAT IN THE MAMMA MIA?!
It was my birthday, but not the kind where you woke up feeling older and wiser, like a character in a coming-of-age movie. No. This one felt more like I had woken up inside the same mess I had fallen asleep in.
Heartbroken. Hungover on memories. And thirty minutes away from breaking down.
My apartment looked incredible though.
I lived in a loft-style unit, with two floors, high ceilings, clean lines, and just enough neutral tones to make it look like a Pinterest board for young professionals who drank oat milk and had commitment issues.
I loved it here.
People online always said my place looked like someone who had their life together: the living area opened to a wide window that looked out toward the glowing skyline of Southside, the kitchen counter was spotless, the marble island gleamed under the warm studio lights, the wine glasses arranged like I was hosting a lifestyle vlog—which was funny, because my apartment never looked emptier.
But that was the thing about heartbreak. Nothing actually disappeared.
The city was still alive outside my windows. My friends were still on their way over. Music playing softly from the speakers. All my stuff was still exactly where I left them.
But somehow everything felt… hollow.
I checked my phone again—out of habit.
No message.
Not from him.
Not today.
Not even a stupid “Happy Birthday.”
And maybe that was what hurt the most. Because birthdays are strange. They’re one of the few days where you find out who thought of you without being reminded.
I sighed and placed the phone face down on the counter.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself.
Tonight wasn’t about him.
Tonight was about me and my friends, drinking something expensive, dancing in my apartment, and pretending—even just for a few hours—that my heart hadn’t built a shrine to someone who no longer lived there.
Right then, the doorbell rang.
My anchors had arrived.
I opened the door and immediately regretted not emotionally preparing myself.
“Happy birthday, James!”
All of them stood outside looking festive.
Andi held two silver balloons shaped like the number twenty-one—even though I was technically thirty-five.
Honey stood beside her carrying a small gift bag and a bottle of wine like a glamorous aunt who always arrived overdressed to everything.
Mel balanced a cake box carefully in both hands, while Andre stood behind the girls holding paper bags that smelled suspiciously like fried chicken.
But the exaggerated greeting was short-lived. Perhaps the energy of people in their thirties drained faster than we liked to admit.
“You’re welcome,” Andi said, kissing my cheek before shoving the balloons into my hand. “I’m letting myself in.”
“You know how embarrassing it is for grown adults to carry birthday balloons in the street?” Mel said, kissing my cheek and walked straight into the apartment.
“Come in?” I said sarcastically.
Honey stepped inside and kissed my cheek as well. “You look devastatingly handsome.” She could’ve stopped there, but she added, “Handsome… but also devastated.”
“And you’re overdressed… as usual,” I told her, but her face lit up with pride, for she knew it was a compliment.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Andre said, pulling me into a tight hug and kissing my cheek. Then he leaned back slightly and sniffed the air. “You smell new.”
“Armaf,” I said, referring to my new perfume.
“Ah,” he nodded approvingly.
Within minutes, my apartment transformed from quiet heartbreak headquarters into a full-blown sanctuary.
Shoes were kicked off. Music grew a little louder. Andre placed the food onto the serving plates, while Andi poured wine like she owned the place.
A little later, food overflowed and stomachs were full.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Until Honey looked at me from across the table and said, “So… are we now allowed to talk about it tonight, or are we still pretending Victor never existed?”
I groaned. “And there it is.”
Andi took a sip of wine. “James, you knew this was coming. This is a group of emotionally loud people.”
Andre leaned against his chair. “Actually, I’m curious too. I only got bits and pieces of information about this relationship of yours.”
I sighed and stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork.
“Are you still sad?” Andi asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I’m in that stage where I’m not crying anymore. I’m just… confused.”
Honey nodded slowly.
“Can we not do the ‘let’s analyze James’ failed love life’ thing tonight?” I complained.
“You are at the most dangerous stage,” Mel said.
Andre frowned. “Why is that dangerous? To me James seems… alright.”
“Because confusion is where people start romanticizing things that were actually terrible,” Mel answered.
Andre pointed at her with a chicken wing. “Okay, that’s accurate.”
I sighed. “It wasn’t even bad all the time.”
That made the table fall silent for a second.
Honey tilted her head slightly. “That’s usually how people get trapped, you know.”
I ignored her.
“He was actually…” I hesitated, trying to find the right words through the memories that flooded my mind. “Soft with me. At least most of the time.” I laughed weakly. “He remembered small things. Checked if I got home. Sent me random updates during the day. Made me feel…” I stopped myself.
“Chosen?” Mel asked gently.
“In a way,” I admitted weakly.
“In a way?” Andi asked.
I ignored her too.
Andre frowned slightly. “Then what actually happened?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again.
Because how do you explain a heartbreak that wasn’t caused by one terrible thing, but by a hundred small uncertainties slowly rotting you from the inside?
“He just…” I exhaled slowly. “He kept feeling close and far away at the same time.”
Andi nodded immediately, like she understood exactly what I meant—and no, not my answer, but my mood.
So she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You know what the real problem with dating right now? Nobody wants to commit to anything anymore. Everyone wants the ‘experience of intimacy’ without the responsibility of it.”
“Everybody wants to be in a relationship, but no one wants to give up their single ways,” I added.
Everyone nodded.
“Basically, situationships,” Honey said.
“Exactly,” Andi said. “Situationships are basically relationships where nobody wants to admit they’re in one.”
Andre chuckled. “From a straight male perspective, I can confirm that half of men are terrified of labels.”
“Terrified?” Mel scoffed. “Please. You just want the benefits of a relationship without the accountability.”
Andre shrugged. “Not me. I’m just saying what I’ve observed.”
Andi laughed, “No, that’s so you.”
Andre rolled his eyes.
Honey swirled her wine thoughtfully. “I don’t know what happened to our generation that went from having the intention of building a life together to everyone dating like they’re browsing a menu. Everyone samples the dishes, but nobody finishes them”
“Dating apps ruined romance,” Andi said. “Everyone thinks someone is better in just one swipe.”
Mel pointed at me. “And that’s why what happened with James hurts so much. Because three months feels like nothing on paper, but emotionally it’s everything.”
I nodded quietly. “It’s like being emotionally invested in something that technically doesn’t exist.”
“Wait.” Andre turned to me. “What were you with that guy Victor?”
“We were called exhausting,” I responded, which garnered small laughs from the ladies.
I felt drained talking about it, honestly, but I went on anyway.
“No, we were in a situationship. There was no formal calling ourselves in a relationship. No promises. Nothing. That’s why it was easy to break and for him, easy to leave. ”
“That truly sounds exhausting,” Andre said.
“Modern dating is exhausting,” Andi agreed.
“Try modern gay dating,” I said.
“What’s so different about straight and gay dating?” Mel asked, genuinely curious.
I leaned back slightly. “Well… for starters, in straight dating at least there’s a cultural script. You know—boy meets girl, they date, and eventually someone asks, ‘So what are we?’ Then there’s a label. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Whatever.”
Andre nodded slowly.
“In gay dating,” I continued, “half the time nobody even knows what the rules are.”
Honey laughed softly. “That’s because there aren’t any rules.”
“In straight relationships,” I said, “society already built the road for you. Marriage. Family. Children. You’re following a map that already existed forever.”
“And in gay dating?” Mel asked.
“In gay dating, we’re basically wandering through the jungle with a machete,” I answered.
Everyone chuckled.
“Or,” Honey added casually, “gays are basically wandering through the concrete jungle with a dildo.”
The room exploded with laughter.
But Honey quickly straightened, waving her hand dismissively. “But seriously. We queer people had to invent our own rules. Our own timelines. Our own definitions of commitment.”
Andre nodded thoughtfully.
“And because of that, “I added, “a lot of gay people stay in this permanent gray area.”
“Gray area?” Mel asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re not strangers. You’re not boyfriends. You’re… something in between.”
“Situationships!” Andre declared.
I pointed at him and nodded. “And unfortunately, gay men—specifically—are also very good at confusing physical intimacy with emotional intimacy.”
Andre laughed. “And from experience, gay men move faster.”
Mel looked amused. “Honestly, that’s what it sounds like.”
“Darling,” Honey said, “when two men date, there is no one in the relationship who’s slowing things down.”
“And that’s how we end up with a three-month situationship that feels like a five-year relationship,” I said, quietly zoning out.
“So,” Andi leaned forward, “what’s it called when you’re only attracted to people who are inconsistent and emotionally unavailable?”
Silence fell for a moment.
“Low self-respect,” Honey answered.
Everyone gagged at it.
“What?” Honey straightened proudly. “That’s the core of it all, guys.”
She was not wrong.