A divorcee is like hot cutlets

Everyone told me that a divorced man is like a reheated cutlet. Reality quickly proved that to be true.

I lit the candles, even though Martyna always said it was unnecessary mawkishness. But something compelled me to create this soft atmosphere in which the words would have a chance to resonate differently. We sat at the table, sharing plates of pumpkin risotto.

I live on the fourth floor of a prefab apartment building. It's a classic – a balcony overlooking a playground, which from nine in the morning resembles a war zone. When I moved in, my neighbor across the street gave me a jar of pickles.

After my divorce, all my friends told me I should move on, as if life were a highway. They suggested new hobbies, mountains, maybe a yoga class. Even my mother, who had previously thought yoga was some kind of cult, encouraged me to take classes. So I started living a quiet life, meaning nothing: work, coffee, books, walks. And then I met Martyna.

She wasn't the type of girl who'd been through a rough patch. She had everything figured out: her apartment, her career, weekends with her parents in Kazimierz. When she laughed, everything seemed possible. Even the possibility of starting over with her. I started planning a proposal: Dinner at home, a gold ring I bought myself, without asking anyone's opinion.

I lit the candles, even though Martyna always said it was unnecessary mawkishness. But something compelled me to create this soft atmosphere, where the words would have a chance to resonate differently. We sat at the table, over plates of pumpkin risotto, and some jazz played softly from the radio.

Martyna was wearing a wide-necked sweater. She was talking about work, about how her boss had sent her another midnight edit. I pretended to listen, but my mind was already on the box in my pocket.

I was planning my future.

I gathered myself, slowly reaching into my pocket.

"Martyna... I wanted to give you something," I said.

She looked at me intently, then suddenly raised her hand, as if to hold something in the air.

"Don't do this. Please."

"But... why?" I asked, feeling like everything I'd built in that moment was crumbling.

She took a deep breath, looking at me with a half-smile that meant nothing good.

"I don't want to be someone's next. I don't want to be a band-aid for a crumbling life."

We were silent for a moment. Then she started clearing the table as if it were just another dinner. I sat there, holding the ring in my hand, which I no longer had the courage to hide.

I walked her to the bus stop and returned to the apartment. I walked slowly, as if every word spoken at the table carried its own weight. Inside, I felt like someone who'd been thrown out of their own life plan. I couldn't explain to her that this wasn't an escape. I simply wanted to stop feeling alone. Everything I'd planned was real, though perhaps too chaotic.

I Withdrew

A few days later, before I could even get used to the silence after that evening, my phone vibrated. A notification from an app I'd long wanted to log out of, but still lacked a decision. I opened it without much interest.

A photo. My ex-wife, Alicja, smiling, in a white shirt, her hand resting on the arm of a man I didn't know. A ring on her finger. Hundreds of reactions under the photo, comments from friends, even my sister. Hearts, congratulations, rose petal emojis. I couldn't ignore it, no matter how hard I tried.

That same evening, I stopped checking social media. First, I muted the apps, then deleted photos, and finally deleted my accounts. I felt like I'd disappeared from the map, but I didn't mind. I no longer wanted to see other people's smiles, other people's happiness. I started sleeping with my phone turned off. Eventually, even it wasn't necessary.

I stopped accepting invitations from work colleagues – after-hours beers, board games, trips to the lake. I told everyone the same thing: that I had a lot of work, that I needed a break, that it wasn't the right time. They stopped insisting. And that was good.

She spoke.

The days began to repeat themselves. I woke up in the morning without an alarm. Coffee, a shower, a tram, work, just to fill the time. Back, shopping, a walk to the park, dinner in the evening, news on the background, a book, sleep. And it was the same again.

Everything that was supposed to be a new beginning was interpreted as an escape. Every step felt like pretending to be someone I wasn't. I stopped trying to explain anything. Silence was easier to bear than conversations that left only the feeling of having failed expectations.

Martyna wrote a single sentence a month later: "Can we meet?" I replied only that I'd be in the park at 5 p.m.

She was already sitting on the bench when I arrived. Her hair was tied up and she was wearing a new coat. I remembered her differently – more withdrawn, more ready to flee. Now she looked tired, but calm.

"I wanted to talk."

I sat down next to her, keeping my distance.

"I don't hold a grudge against you," I said after a moment. "I just wanted to understand."

I wanted an explanation.

She looked at me intently, unsmiling.

"I sensed this wasn't a proposal for a future together. More of a plea for something to finally change."

"I didn't have anyone rooting for me," I said.

"Because not everything in life is a competition, Paweł."

Her words were neither warm nor cold. Simply true. They promised nothing, left no room for interpretation.

I'm not planning anything anymore." I don't think about travel, I don't browse apartment listings, or look at people wondering if they might love me. I've stopped checking the weather. Everyday life isn't bad when you stop expecting anything more from it than just being there.

Work has become familiar, predictable. Sometimes people ask me if I'd like to change something. I don't. Changes have already happened, now I'm content with peace. I don't follow other people's lives. I don't know what's going on with Alicja, I don't know if Martyna is seeing anyone. And it doesn't hurt.

In the evenings, I go out on the balcony, even when it's chilly. I watch the lights go out. I don't think about what was, I don't look forward to what will be. Not everything is rebuilt. Some things are forgotten or allowed to disappear.