It's still today.
The same day he said hii.
Just one word. Just two letters — and still, it shifted something. Not in the way you might expect. Not like before.
I replied with hi. That's it. Nothing more.
But everything else? Everything inside me? It kept going.
Not louder — just deeper.
Time is strange when you're feeling too much. The hours stretch. Every minute holds weight. The sun outside hasn't even begun to dip, but it feels like I've lived a whole life inside my head since noon.
And even now, I'm still not sure what I feel.
Not completely.
I don't feel sad.
I don't feel happy either.
I just… feel. Something. Different.
There's still an ache. A heaviness in my chest that's not asking to be explained.
But my mind — it's doing something new.
It's asking for space to breathe.
It's trying, quietly, to smile.
Not a big smile. Not the kind that hurts your cheeks. Just a soft curl at the edges — like my soul is sighing instead of sobbing.
And that means something.
It means I'm changing.
Not all at once.
But slowly. Honestly.
The past three days were hard.
He wasn't there.
And I was bleeding.
Not metaphorically — literally. My body was aching. My mind felt like it was splitting open. I kept whispering to myself, It's just hormones. It'll pass.
But it wasn't just that.
It was me.
My feelings.
The kind I usually bury until something cracks them open.
Maybe it did take hormones to shake them loose — but what came out was always there.
And now?
Now I'm letting it out.
Letting myself feel all of it — the whole palette.
Not pushing it down. Not calling myself dramatic.
Just feeling it.
And staying.
I'm not trying to label anything. This isn't about blame.
He has his struggles.
And I do too.
I understand.
It's about learning that sometimes, someone you care about steps back — just a little — and it hurts.
But that hurt doesn't have to undo me.
It doesn't mean they love you less.
And it doesn't mean you're unlovable.
People move.
They shift.
They need space.
And I've decided that I won't collapse every time someone else breathes differently.
He might love me.
He might not.
Maybe he means every word he's said, or maybe he's still figuring it all out.
And me?
I still care.
That hasn't changed.
I'm not pretending that I don't want him in my life.
I do.
I'm just saying — I'm not going to fall apart every time I don't feel him near.
There's something beautiful about being in this place.
This in-between.
This not-exactly-healed, but not-broken-either space.
It feels like sitting at the edge of a garden that hasn't bloomed yet — but knowing the soil is finally ready.
I'm not the same as I was three days ago.
Then, I cried.
Then, I curled up in pain.
Then, I whispered apologies into the dark and begged myself to feel okay.
But now, I'm sitting with myself in silence — and I don't hate the sound of it.
I want to build something here.
Not a recovery project.
Not a perfect girl version of me.
Just something real.
Small steps.
Quiet moments.
Promises made to myself in my own voice.
Like this one:
"It's okay to fall. That's part of healing.
Even if I fall for days, weeks, even months —
I will stand up again."
Like this one:
"No more gloom."
Not in a way that says sadness isn't allowed.
But in a way that says I'm done letting it swallow me.
I'm done making pain my permanent address.
I want to live somewhere warmer now.
I want to write again.
To breathe slower.
To stretch in the morning without guilt pressed against my spine.
I want to plan.
Maybe not big things.
Just enough.
Just enough to know I'll be here tomorrow.
I want to think about the woman I'm becoming.
Someone who welcomes love, but doesn't beg for it.
Someone who isn't afraid of silence.
Someone who chooses herself — even when it terrifies her to let go.
Maybe Nigel will be part of that life.
Maybe.
That's not something I need to know today.
Today is about me.
About the way my mind feels tired — but my heart… not shattered anymore.
It still aches.
Still has empty corners.
But it's holding on.
To softness.
To resilience.
To the idea that I can be okay — even when people leave, even when they don't check in, even when they don't say what I wish they would.
I have people.
Aurora.
And my friends.
People who notice. Who stay.
Who remind me love doesn't always come wrapped in loud gestures — sometimes, it's just presence.
And more than that, I have myself.
That used to sound like settling.
Now it sounds like safety.
Because I'm learning — slowly, imperfectly — that I don't need to chase comfort in someone else's arms when I can build it in my own.
In my habits.
In my writing.
In my quiet.
In the life I'm building for myself.
This is the beginning of something.
Not a triumph.
Not a moment to shout about.
Just a quiet beginning.
A place where I say to myself:
"It's okay to take time.
It's okay to not know.
It's okay to feel the gloom — as long as I remember the bloom is coming."
And it is.
I feel it.
Not in full color yet.
Not in loud music or glitter.
Just in a small peace.
A gentle knowing.
That even when it hurts — even when someone goes quiet, even when I bleed, even when I ache — I will not lose myself again.
Because I've found something now.
A part of me that doesn't flinch at absence.
A voice that says:
You are not the worst thing .
You are not defined by waiting.
You are not a victim of your own love.
You are you.
You are becoming.
And that's enough.
Even when the growth isn't obvious.
Even with setbacks.
Even when you relapse —
You are still becoming.