Rob and I broke up on a Monday. It was the first warm day after an impossibly long winter, which made the whole thing feel that much more cruel. I was in line at Starbucks when I got a text that read, “Hey, you around? I think we need to talk.”

Just two short sentences, but they had the destructive force of a sudden summer storm.

As I walked home, panic settled in my stomach like a swallowed stone. I went into my bedroom and closed the door, even though I live alone. Our conversation was brief, or so it seemed. I had no concept of time.

I refrained from asking him why and therefore seeming desperate, a perception of collectedness that came at the expense of my gaining any real answers or closure.

What I did manage to gather made me realize that as I had been floating along on a river of bliss, he had been mentally cataloging evidence of my flaws.

Earlier that week, we had talked about stopping by the Tompkins Square dog run. We didn’t have a dog, but we loved to sneak in — always one at a time to give the impression we had arranged to meet each other there. We’d give the dogs funny voices, accents, back stories. Or maybe that was just me?

I went to work early Tuesday to remove the pictures of us from my cubicle wall, redistributing the others in hopes that co-workers wouldn’t notice and ask. I put the thumbtacks back in their little box, tucked the photos into a folder in the bottom of a drawer and went to the bathroom, where I cried in ugly, shallow breaths.

“You have to go back to normal,” my friends advised in the too-gentle voice one might use when speaking to a child or the mentally unstable. “It will help you feel better.”

I showed up at work the rest of the week, eyes rimmed with worn mascara and sleeplessness. I sat through meetings, turning my head when my name was called but requiring a moment to understand why.

When the weekend finally came, I looked forward to the sweet reprieve of solitude and planned to stay inside with the blinds shut against the oppressive joy of late April. I picked up sushi in clothes unfit for public display, hurried home and turned on Netflix to embark on all 57 episodes of “Portlandia.”

And there it was: my recently watched list, representing the entire history of our relationship.

There was “Mad Men,” which we watched again from the beginning during a snowstorm, my legs across his lap, the cat asleep on my stomach, Peggy Olson still vulnerable and meek.

While making dinner later, I was humming along to a Billie Holiday song at the stove when he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and belted the chorus in a low vibrato.

I collapsed into laughter, into him.

“This is everything I want,” he said, suddenly serious.

“Tacos?” I joked, but my throat tightened with a mixture of fear and hope.

There was the Bill Burr comedy special we had barely started when he pulled me onto his lap and began kissing me. He tried to carry me to his bed, but his socks slipped a little on the wood floor, and we laughed, mouths still together, the moment made sweeter.

We finished the show half-clothed, a picnic spread out on the bed. It was the first time in my life I had felt nostalgic for the exact moment I was in.

There was the documentary about creatures from the ocean depths, with David Attenborough explaining how cuttlefish mate, as we talked about the career change I was contemplating.

“Just go for it,” he said. “Look how happy it makes you just talking about the possibility.”

And for one clear moment, I saw myself as he saw me. After he fell asleep, I listened to his deep and steady breathing as a giant squid died while protecting her eggs.

Earlier that night, a friend had taken a picture of us sitting at a counter facing each other, his hands extended to me and mine over my mouth, our eyes disappearing into our smiles. Neither of us had noticed the camera pointed our way, or the crowd swelling around us, or Midtown carrying on just outside.

Before I could think about it, I hit play on “Mad Men.” On some subconscious level I must have been hoping that by replaying the episodes, I could replay the memories, too, and surrender completely to grief.

I was tired of treading water, of trying to use errands and routine to will away the sadness that demanded to be felt. On screen, Don Draper struggled for the right Lucky Strike pitch while I let myself wallow in the hows and whys of heartbreak.

My friends came over on Saturday night and forced me to shower and put on a bra. They took me out, propped me up on a barstool and tried to talk to me through my thousand-yard stare.

“Those guys over there are looking at you,” my friend Hannah yelled in my ear. “I think you should smile at them.”

I tried, but the synapses between brain and face muscles were dulled from underuse, and instead my mouth did a sort of bared-teeth grimace.

The next night my friends tried again, this time at home with red wine. We even wore tiaras, because who can be sad in a tiara?

Me, apparently. I was present for the conversation, and occasionally participated, but my mind was so far removed that my contributions mostly involved uttering some non sequitur about a topic they already had moved on from.

After the conversation shifted from talk of the new ice cream shop to the merits of visiting the public library, I added, “I wonder if they have dairy-free stuff.”

They forgave my lapses the way people may forgive an old, flatulent dog.

By the end of the weekend, my friends let me crawl back into my cave. I turned on the TV and was surprised to see something new in my queue: “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.”

I stood up, mouth agape.

It was communication from the void, like a song you love coming in over the radio with surprising clarity as you drive through rural towns. I thought of him watching it on the couch that his legs were too long for, feet hanging over the armrest, and something in my chest crumpled like a paper lily.

I wanted to be angry that he was still using my login — that he could still take from me after leaving me with nothing. But I couldn’t. This was my only connection to him, and changing my password would sever the last artery of this bleeding limb.

I also thought: Maybe if he sees the same titles that I see, he, too, will replay the highlight reel of our happy memories and be warmed by them. And, who knows, that might lead him back to me?

I turned it on, watched Jiro slice fish methodically, and soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep for the first time in a week.

The next day after work, I was watching a bowl of leftovers rotate in the microwave when a message buzzed on my phone.

“Hey… how are you?”

My face flushed with love and rage and longing and indignity.

I opened a new message so he wouldn’t see the typing bubbles appear, disappear and then reappear with indecision. I started and deleted messages as the microwave beeped from what seemed like miles away. Finally I typed, “I’m good — everything okay?” Cool, collected, a bit detached.

“Yeah, of course. Just wanted to say hi … make sure you were doing okay.”

Suddenly, the lobe of my brain that held all my pain plunged into darkness and the lobe that held my anger blazed with light. Did he expect me to be sitting at home in a stained tank top eating leftovers? I mean, I was, but — was the thought of me being fine without him so improbable that he felt the need to check on my stability?

Another buzz from my phone: “Have you seen ‘Jiro Dreams of Sushi’? I think you’d like it because you love quirky old people.”

I sat down with my dinner and thought of several responses, some gentle, some fiery and profane. Eventually, I decided to say nothing. Instead, I changed my Netflix password.

I worried that I may never again feel as completely safe and at ease as I did making funny voices for a French bulldog with him by my side, but you can’t control how someone else feels. Better, in the end, to focus on those few things you can control.

Like his Netflix access.