Relationship Bread Crumbs In My Inbox

Sometimes your inbox is full of personal history.

I decided to purge my email inbox today.

86,462 messages.

The number felt impressive to me, sitting there in the corner of the screen. Its font seemed to grow as I looked at it. As it touted itself, asking me if I really wanted to delete such an accomplishment.

A hoarder of unnecessary messages, it felt like the right time to spring clean. I could do it with a single click. Check off the “Delete All” option and be done with it. But there had to be some nuggets buried within the debris. Hidden gems I wanted to save. Conversations I wanted to stow away for later.

I knew all the recent usual suspect messages. RingCentral notifications, updates on baseball starting lineups, trending tweets. I wondered where the first message came from. Who sent it. What they wanted. With a few clicks, I stepped into the way-back machine, transported back to 2006.

God, had I really let my email sit for so long? The dirt and mold growing from within. I must have attempted an inbox cleaning at some point. Right?

The first message, suppressed into the very pit of my email came from a college professor, addressing a question I asked about a film project. I studied film and television. In my first class, we shot everything on 16mm black and white film. We edited on Steinbeck tables. I emailed the professor where I could find the right tape for splicing my film cuts.

I sifted through the email messages, checking off 50 messages at a time to be erased from existence. I’m sure the senders had long since cleaned out their own “Sent” box. And then I saw it.

I saw the address.

I couldn’t have remembered it if I tried. An address long since removed from my own mental inbox. And yet, as soon as I saw it, I knew it.

Hers.

The woman I once loved.

The woman I once called my wife.

The woman I hadn’t spoken to, let alone see, now in over a decade.

The read message hung there on the screen. Dangling from a digital noose that would eventually drop. The same noose causing my chest to tighten. My heart to pick up its pace. To make more noise in my chest. A warning? An approval to open it?

My thumb and index finger tapped together, unsure of what my brain would tell them to do.

I clicked on the message.

A simple message. A message clearly written by someone attempting to hide their crush from the recipient. 2006. Back when AOL AIM was the only form of “social media” communication, outside of poking people on Facebook. Back when you needed a college email to be on Facebook. Back before the first iPhone. Back before we fell in love.

Back before we fell out of love.

I asked how her day was going. If work went okay. If she managed to sell any overpriced designer pants (she worked at a clothing boutique). She had gone home for summer vacation. Not able to do so myself, I remained in college, without her presence.

Days without seeing my crush felt like added weight on my shoulders. It poured molasses on clocks, slowing down the hours and days.

The message started an entire thread. She’d respond, then I’d message right back. She didn’t have AIM, so I relied on emails with her to make it through the summer. To make it through the agony of time. Of the emptiness. I remember sitting at my desk, the lump in my throat the only thing larger than the bulbous desktop monitor, waiting for her to reply. Clicking refresh. Checking my inbox after every dog walk. After every class. Every bathroom break.

I didn’t select the email for removal. I don’t know why. The relationship long since over. It’s hard for me to picture her face. I can hear her laugh, see the one-dimple smile. The mole on her chest. Her leather jacket and jeans. But not her face. Perhaps memory had already started to take its toll on her. On what seeing her would do to me. Could do to me.

Deleting the email wouldn’t change that. It wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t hinder. And yet, it felt like erasing part of history. My history. Maybe I’d tucked the message at the bottom of my inbox, letting it linger and age like that can of creamed carrots pushed in the back of the cupboard.

Other emails from her offer breadcrumbs into our relationship. A connect-the-dots of events. Messages of returning to school, of enjoying the cup of coffee we shared, of our time in Atlanta together.

The emails chronicled when we decided to move together. When I lived in another state, waiting for her to finish a last semester of college. Pictures of our new apartment. Then links to wedding venues. A response from the Detroit Institute of Art regarding wedding receptions.

Emails of shared paperwork. Of when the divorce documents needed to be signed. Needed to be submitted.

I didn’t re-read all the emails. The subject line said enough. I can’t ride super-spiny carnival rides. They leave me shaken, dizzy, disoriented. My heart didn’t want to read some of those emails for the same reason.

An abbreviated tour of the relationship with my wife in email subject form. I exited out of the email account, a numbness beating from within.

Maybe I’ll purge my inbox tomorrow.