It’s been 3 years and 5 months.

41 months.

1,253 days since we were last us.

And still, not a single day passes without you crossing my mind. I try to stop thinking about you. I try to move on. But no matter how much I try to numb the pain or hide it, I can’t seem to forget about you. 

Grief has a quiet way of slipping through the cracks. A song. A scent. A certain time of night. 

A memory. Suddenly, I’m back in the warmth of your arms, surrounded by the softness of the love we once shared.

You moved on fast. We were together for three years, and you replaced me with someone who looks similar to me within a few weeks. I guess some people would call that a rebound or a coping mechanism. 

Everyone copes in different ways.

I’ll admit it still kinda hurts. But I was the one who ended us. That truth sits heavy and quiet in my chest. So I understand why you did what you did.

I still remember the last time I saw you — the last time we were together. The airport, the drop-off lane. Your suitcase. That half-hug goodbye. 

You leaving for San Diego for a travel nursing contract. This time without me. I didn’t know it would be the last version of us that still existed. I wish it hadn’t been. If I had known, maybe I would’ve held on longer. Hugged you tighter. Maybe I would’ve said more. Maybe I would’ve said less. 

–

But before San Diego, we were already falling apart.

Wilton Manors Pride. June 2022. Music, sweat, glitter in the air. We were out with friends. We drank, we danced, we were having fun. After midnight, you were tired. I wasn’t. I wanted to keep going. I wanted more night, more music, more escape.

But our friends were tired too, so we all went back to our place. After they left, I told you I wanted to go back out. You didn’t want to, so I said I’d go alone.

I got my things together and was about to leave, but you grabbed my phone and keys to stop me. I felt trapped, and I reacted. I threw your PS4 on the ground. You threw my phone in the lake. I threw your computer. You threw my work computer. I threw down the TV. Then you slammed me to the ground.

You’re bigger and heavier than me, and I felt your full weight on my chest. I felt like I was being crushed. My lungs fighting for air. The terrifying realization that the person I loved was also the person I was afraid of. I tried to get you off, but you had me pinned down. I was defenseless. The only thing I could do was stop fighting and submit. Eventually, you got off of me.

When you got off me, I ran into the bedroom, locked the door, and got on my computer. You had thrown my phone in the lake, so I messaged our friends on Facebook for help — the same friends who had just been with us. Luckily, they had just stopped at Wawa and were nearby.

When they walked into the apartment, it looked like a crime scene. Shattered glass, broken electronics, and pieces of our life scattered across the floor.  

–

That should have been the end of our relationship. But it wasn’t.

We still went to Colombia weeks later because the trip was already booked months prior. 

Cartagena had its moments, but mostly it felt like we were dragging our broken relationship into a beautiful place and pretending scenery could fix it. Broken people still argue, even in beautiful places.

The trip ended with another fight — you punching me in the face in the back of an Uber after a night of drinking.

When we came back to Florida, you left for San Diego and I told you I needed space to think about everything that had happened. I said I wanted to be “open,” not fully understanding what that would actually mean.

I didn’t act on it. You did. And what hurt most wasn’t just that you acted so quickly on it — it was that you didn’t tell me. I had to ask. 

That, on top of everything else we’d been through, is what finally pushed me to end our relationship.

–

Part of me believed we’d get back together like we always had before. We had a pattern: fight, break up, come back together. Over and over. 

Cops were involved. Alcohol was involved. Cheating. Physical assault. Verbal abuse. But the apologies and passion made us forget. And the makeup sex was addicting.

Because we shared an apartment and a lease in Florida, I thought you’d come back after San Diego and we’d somehow fix everything. That was wishful thinking. You blocked me and San Diego was a fresh start for you — new people, new energy, new boy, and distance from all the damage.

Months later, you showed up to get your things. I was working from home when I heard the door open unexpectedly. It scared me. You walked in with a friend. No hello. No eye contact. Just boxes, bags, and silence. You grabbed your stuff and then you left.

I remember slamming the door after you walked out. I sat there in the quiet of an apartment that used to feel like home and finally understood that this was really over. 

I broke down and cried in a way that felt deeper than just heartbreak. I felt abandoned. I was grieving not only you, but the future I had imagined for us. The version of love I thought we’d grow into and the life we’d share. 

–

Loving you cost me parts of myself I’m still trying to rebuild.

You were my first love and my first heartbreak. I was young and naive.

They say your first love is the hardest and I’ve never felt anything more painful than heartbreak. It’s a feeling I still don’t have words for.

I’m still grieving.

Still learning how to trust again.

Still learning how to open up.

Still learning how to love again.

You broke my heart. But you are no longer my future.

I will choose peace over chaos, safety over intensity, and a love that doesn’t hurt to hold.

Because love shouldn’t feel like something you have… to survive.