It started as a perfect night. I had planned it carefully—down to the detail that he wouldn’t be there. He had somewhere else to be, a party, so I knew I was safe. Safe to go out, to laugh, to exist without worrying about running into him.
I met up with friends. We laughed, told stories, shared pizza. They had cocktails; I stuck with water. It didn’t matter—I was genuinely having a good time. Some people left, but a few of us stayed. We decided to play darts.
I’ve never been into darts. It never interested me. But I tried it—and honestly, it was fun. Really fun. I won’t be joining a league or anything, but I’d absolutely play again. It felt good. Light. Easy.
I threw my three darts, turned around—
And there he was.
The first time we’d really seen each other since the breakup.
My heart dropped. Completely sank. All at once, the night I had been enjoying so freely didn’t feel safe anymore. This was supposed to be my space. My night. He wasn’t supposed to be there.
He had to have known. There’s no way he didn’t. Our mutual friends and I had posted about it—he could see that we were all going out. So why show up? Why come anyway?
And then, like it was nothing, like we were just two people who used to know each other, he casually asked me how I was.
How was I supposed to answer that?
I shrugged. Mumbled, “fine.”
Because what else could I say?
I couldn’t tell him the truth—that my heart was breaking just standing there in front of him. That I was still struggling. That seeing him unraveled everything I had been trying so hard to hold together.
I couldn’t say any of that.
Because it wouldn’t matter… would it?
I’ve been trying so hard to move on. I want to feel free again. I want to feel happy without this constant weight in my chest. I hate feeling this broken.
But seeing him…
It hurt. Physically, almost. My chest tightened, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
And still—I saw him.
I missed his face. I missed his smile. It wasn’t the same smile I used to know, not the one that belonged to me, but it was still his. Still familiar. Still handsome.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Why was he there? Why does it feel like every time I start to move forward, something pulls me back?
It’s not just this one moment. It’s everything.
My daughter breaking down because she misses him.
The radio playing our song when I’m finally enjoying myself.
Old photos resurfacing out of nowhere.
Every time I feel like I’m getting better, something reminds me of him. Makes me miss him. Makes me wish things had turned out differently.
I think about what it would feel like to have him next to me again. Holding me in our bed. The same bed I’ve barely slept in for two months because it feels empty without him.
I don’t understand any of this.
I don’t understand why it keeps happening, why I can’t just let go and be free.
Is this some kind of lesson?
Am I supposed to learn something from this?
Am I not meant to move on?
Am I not meant to love again?
I keep asking what God is trying to show me.
But right now, all I feel is stuck—caught between letting go and holding on, between who I was and who I’m supposed to become.
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