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When I was three, I cried when Esmeralda didn’t choose Quasimodo. Even then, I wanted to believe the Quasimodos of the world are capable of finding love.
I guess that makes me a hopeless romantic, but I only mention it because this genetic predisposition to love always makes it hard for me to handle breakups. They always make me feel like a ton of bricks are coming down on my chest, while my throat closes in on my esophagus — painful.
I remember a few years back when I was still in college: My friends with benefits relationship fizzled out, in addition to some old flames back home. The details of my frustration are hard to remember, but I can recall crying on the phone to my mother with 713 miles separating us.