Slowly, the quiet stopped feeling like abandonment.
It started sounding like peace.
I finished my final projects. Submitted my thesis.
Stood in a cap and gown, sweaty under the sun, thinking,
He wasn't here. But I was.
And that was enough.
Nia screamed the loudest when my name was called.
My parents hugged me with tears in their eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't wish he could see it.
That moment belonged to me.
After graduation, I started moving differently.
I took on freelance jobs, cleaned up my CV, began applying for design internships like someone who believed in her future.
And I did.
Maybe for the first time in a long time.
I poured myself into passion.
Took an online course in UI/UX design.
Created my first portfolio, even if it wasn't perfect.
Landed a small freelance gig for a skincare brand and cried happy tears when they said,
"You really understood the brief."
I stopped waking up with heaviness.
I lit candles in the morning. Made my bed. Wrote to-do lists in pink ink.
I created routines I didn't have to shrink myself for.
I went out more, nothing wild, just soft gatherings, wine nights with Nia, conversations that didn't revolve around healing or heartbreak.
I met people who didn't know my story.
Didn't ask about him.
Didn't carry any of that weight.
One guy said I laughed like I'd just come out of the rain.
It made me pause. Because maybe I had.
Maybe the storm was over.
I wore red lipstick again.
The one he said was "too much."
I posted my design work without worrying about who would see it.
Took selfies. Replied to compliments.
I even went on a trip, a short one, with Nia.
We danced barefoot at a beach event.
Watched the sunrise from a quiet dock.
And I remember thinking,
This is what it feels like to be full on your own.
Healing wasn't linear.
There were still days my chest tightened when I saw someone in a grey hoodie.
Still moments where I missed how easy it was to be wanted, even if it was only halfway.
But I never reached out.
The grip had loosened.
The ache had dulled.
And I wasn't waiting for him anymore.
I wasn't shrinking anymore.
I was becoming.
And this version of me, focused, soft, hopeful.
She wasn't perfect.
But she was free.
Not because he let her go,
But because she chose to stay gone.
Each milestone was a reminder:
I could create beauty from scratch.
I didn't need to be someone's muse to feel worthy.
I was the artist now.
I stopped looking for him in crowds.
Stopped replaying moments like they were clues.
Started asking new questions:
What do I like?
What do I want?
What do I need?
And the answers came slowly.
Through music I hadn't listened to in months.
Through new names saved in my phone.
Healing didn't ask me to erase him.
It asked me to include myself.
I wasn't trying to be strong anymore.
Just soft enough to feel again.
Clear enough to choose better.
Steady enough to stay gone, not because I was bitter,
But because I was busy blooming.
And just when I started believing peace was enough,
he came along.
Not him.
Someone else.
With a different kind of fire.
I wasn't looking for anything.
But maybe, just maybe... something had found me.