A FEW days before I was dumped, I sat in the campus library. It was the eve of my first chemistry exam that semester. Under the dusty lights of the reading room, I was supposed to be studying. Instead, I stared at the cracked screen of my cellphone, waiting for a call.

Scattered across the table were my textbooks, laptop, pencils and two stacks of index cards. One stack had the names and definitions of the seemingly endless number of organic compounds I had to memorize. The other tackled more complicated material: my love life.

It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen the guy I was dating. Based on his lack of communication, I feared our next phone call would be our last. So I took pre-emptive action, composing on index cards a list of reasons why he and I should still hang out. One read, “I’m not looking for anything serious either, just fun” (a completely false statement). “My friends love me,” read another.

He did not call that night. I guess he didn’t want to break up with me on Valentine’s Day. Memories of better times galloped through my head: cuddling in bed, watching nature documentaries. I thought we had a connection, some bond.