Mira
The first morning after Adrian and I ended things, I woke up before my alarm.
For a moment, I forgot.
That soft, dangerous hope crept in, the expectation that my phone would already be buzzing. That there would be a message waiting, something familiar, something grounding. An apology, maybe. Or a complaint. Or even silence that meant he's thinking of you.
I reached for my phone out of habit.
Nothing.
The realization hit slowly. Not like a wave, but like cold water seeping into my shoes. Uncomfortable. Inevitable. I lay there staring at the ceiling, my chest tight, my mind scrambling to fill the space he'd left behind.
This was what I'd chosen.
I reminded myself of that over and over again as I got ready. As I stood in the shower longer than necessary. As I stared at my reflection, looking for signs that I'd made a mistake.
My face looked the same. My eyes didn't.
They looked… quieter. Less alert. Like they weren't constantly waiting to be corrected.
That should have felt like relief.
Instead, it scared me.
Grief didn't arrive the way I expected. It didn't scream or beg. It didn't collapse me to the floor. It showed up in small, cruel ways. In moments where I reached for my phone to share something mundane. In songs I avoided because they reminded me of car rides that no longer existed. In the way my body still leaned toward absence, as if expecting him to materialize.
I went through my day on autopilot.
At work, I nodded when spoken to. Smiled when required. Answered questions like I was someone who had slept well and eaten properly and wasn't holding herself together with muscle memory alone.
During lunch, my friend Anya studied me from across the table.
"You're quieter than usual," she said carefully.
"I'm fine," I replied, just as carefully.
She didn't believe me. But she didn't push. That kindness nearly broke me.
Because Adrian would have pushed. Or dismissed. Or turned my quiet into an inconvenience.
After work, I walked instead of taking the bus. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I didn't want to be inside yet. My apartment felt too empty, too aware of the fact that I was alone with my thoughts now.
The park was nearby. Familiar, but not intimate. Neutral ground.
I sat on a bench and watched people pass by. Couples. Friends. A woman jogging with determination written into every step. A man talking animatedly on his phone. Everyone seemed so sure of where they were going.
I felt untethered.
I thought about all the times I'd stayed because leaving felt harder. All the moments I'd ignored my discomfort because I'd convinced myself it was love asking me to compromise. I wondered how many versions of myself I'd folded away just to keep someone else comfortable.
The thought made my throat tighten.
I hadn't just lost Adrian.
I'd lost time.
There was guilt too. It crept in quietly, whispering that I'd abandoned something unfinished. That if I'd just been calmer, quieter, better—things might have worked out. I hated how persuasive that voice was. How much it sounded like him.
Healing, I realized, wasn't a straight line. It was a constant negotiation between remembering why I left and missing what I wished he'd been.
That night, I cried.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just steady tears that soaked into my pillow while I lay curled on my side, mourning a relationship that had only existed in fragments. I wasn't crying for Adrian as he was. I was crying for the version of him I'd kept hoping would return.
The man who listened.
The man who chose me.
Morning came anyway.
The days that followed were strange. Lighter in some ways. Heavier in others. I noticed how often I'd been holding my breath before. How silence no longer felt like a test I was failing. How I could leave my phone face down without anxiety gnawing at my ribs.
But freedom came with echoes.
I questioned myself constantly. Was I too dramatic? Too emotional? Too demanding? The self-doubt lingered like a shadow that refused to detach.
Still, there were small victories.
I laughed out loud without immediately apologizing. I wore clothes without wondering if they would irritate someone. I spoke without rehearsing every sentence beforehand.
I began to recognize myself again, slowly, cautiously—like meeting someone after a long absence.
One evening, I returned to the park. Same bench. Same path. I didn't know why I was drawn there. Maybe I just needed a place that didn't carry memories of him.
As I sat there, watching the sky darken, I felt something unfamiliar settle into my chest.
Not happiness.
But possibility.
I didn't know what came next. I didn't know who I would become without Adrian defining the edges of my world. I only knew that for the first time in a long while, my future didn't feel like something I had to negotiate.
It was mine.
And even though that terrified me, it also felt like the beginning of something I hadn't allowed myself to want before.
Peace that didn't require permission.
I stayed on the bench until the lights came on.
Somewhere nearby, footsteps passed behind me. I didn't look back. Not yet.
I wasn't ready for collisions.
But I was ready for myself.