After twenty-odd months of enduring a separation, a prolonged divorce proceeding that is still ongoing, a series of dating explorations, Sol asks a question many have asked before — is it worth finding someone? He realizes whether he can find someone isn't that big of a question; he knows he can. He doesn't, however, know if he can love another person as deeply as he once did. He also doesn't know if it'd be fair to the other person if he cannot love the way he did. These are not unanswerable questions, he can find the answers. It just takes an inordinate amount of time. Time is the scarcest and scariest of all resources. He knows loving someone is worth it. He doesn't know how much sacrifice is needed for that. He doesn't know what the shape of happiness is. He knows the pursuit of happiness brings happiness; he doesn't have a pursuit right now.
Some days, he goes to the rooftop and stares at the setting sun and bids goodbye to another day of his life, the same way he had to say bye to his ex-wife, only he didn't have a chance to do so the right way. He asks himself if there is a good way to say eternal goodbye to eternal love. When life and death draw the line between a lover and the love, it can feel unbearable, but it comes with a clear separation and with a license to wail. When something else breaks the bond, not through a breakage of vows but through invisible cuts of distance, it enters the realm of the ineffable. One of those days, his playlist presents him with a song that kinda makes sense to him; it sings: "I don't love anyone, but maybe I love / I don't know anyone or maybe I do / I don't call for anyone or maybe I do." It's a Bengali song by Bangla Five. He thinks he's grateful that he knows Bengali, because sometimes songs like that are exactly what he needs. He puts the song on repeat, the same way his lost love keeps humming on repeat.