"Will I ever laugh again?"

Sitting in my room last night, tears were running down my face as I watched a recently jilted, heartbroken woman curl up on a bed in a darkened room and ask the question we've all, at some point after a breakup, wondered to ourselves.

The film was a ridiculous, commercial, critically panned blockbuster; the character a well known fictional girl-crush made for those of us with pink boxsets of the TV series adorning our shelves. The on-screen emotions were fuelled by million dollar pay packets; the happy Hollywood ending would follow after 180 minutes.

But whether you're watching Sex and the City, reading words in a blog post or listening to a friend talk it out, heartbreak is universal. It rattles the mind, flips your stomach, stops your appetite for days on end, and leaves you with a hulking great big hole that can only be filled by the words "I've made a mistake, let's try again".

When those words don't come, there's the slow, painful, gradual healing process; an ache in your chest where the all-consuming, once-reciprocated love for another person used to be. It's paranoia and pain. It makes you scan Kings Cross Station six months on, praying his face does - no, doesn't - appear through the crowds. Heartbreak puts anger and sadness on opposing ends of a seesaw, and forces you to balance precariously in the middle for months on end.

The Hollywood ending won't come for most of us, there are unlikely to be a mass of unanswered emails accumulating in a forgotten account. No texts, no casual sightings or mutual friends to pass on tidbits of information. No mindgames or messages to deconstruct into meaning. For some, there will be prolonged hope; sex, meetings, phone calls; the odd "saw this and thought of you". For the rest, there's just the highs and lows of getting over someone on your own.

But sometimes refuge from a low point comes in the most unexpected of ways. You'll see someone who once left you reeling and feel nothing - except a little sorry, perhaps, for the nervous, slightly insecure girl who now stands with him, glancing awkwardly  at you through the window of a pub when she thinks you're not looking. You were her once. You're not any more. And thank-fucking-god-for-that.

Will I ever laugh again?
Yes.
When?
When something's really, really funny.

Or when you're out with a load of mates, a fairly recent heartbreak drifting into the background of music, chatter and alcohol, and an older heartbreak that used to matter just doesn't any more.

The more recent one hurts at the moment.

But one day it won't.

Fact.