Seven Marks and a Condom
Somewhere between fourteen and twenty you collect a small archive of endings—notes left in jacket pockets, folded into textbook covers, pushed under bedroom doors. The kind of writing that happens when someone needs to say something but doesn’t trust themselves to say it out loud without losing the thread. I kept a few of these.
This was before text messages made it easy to dissolve a relationship in three lines and a thumbs-down emoji. You had to commit to paper. You had to choose words. The results, reading them back now, are somewhere between historical documents and car crashes.
Jasmin sent hers in 2001: I know we didn’t make it easy for each other, but I never thought it would end like this. Here’s the condom back that I let you take—you’ll definitely still need it for your Kathi. If you don’t want me anymore, the only thing I want back is my little bear that I got from my mother. Keep everything else. I’ll never forget you. Oh, and you still owe me seven marks.
Susanne, 2002: Hey, everything okay? How are Marc and Sarah? I need to tell you something. My friends think you’re not good for me, so I unfortunately have to break up with you today. But I think they’re genuinely right—after all we come from different worlds, and I did cry the first time we slept together. I really do wish you a wonderful life. I’m going with Magnus and Kevin to sacrifice some rabbits in the woods now. See you.
Sabrina, the same year: Marcel, you little beaver—I wanted to tell you I finally slept with Lukas. It was pretty good, though I never would have done it if I hadn’t been so drunk. His mother came in and asked if everything was okay because she’d heard strange noises from upstairs. I love you and I’m convinced you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But true love isn’t even separated by death. And definitely not by two kilometers. Take care.
Regina, 2003: It really wasn’t about Murat having a car and a job, but so many things are just better with him than they were with us. His friends are really cool and get up to all kinds of shit. Drugs and stuff. I smoked weed with him now, it was great. Even though his brother touched me between the legs while we were doing it. But Murat promised me that once he’s separated from his wife and his two stupid kids, he’ll take me to London.
Stefanie closed out 2004: Right. I’ve had it with you for good now. I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s not a cult—it’s our leader, and we simply have a different attitude toward life and what comes after. If you keep making those stupid jokes about it, I have no choice but to break up with you. No kidding. Here are the two topless photos I promised you yesterday, and if you contact me again there’ll be trouble.
What stays with me isn’t the heartbreak—most of these were short enough that the word barely applies—but the specificity. The seven marks. The rabbits. Murat’s two stupid kids. The topless photos delivered as both parting gift and cease-and-desist in the same envelope. None of these women had any idea they were writing literature. They were just trying to end something cleanly. But here we are.