Time goes on and on. Maybe the only thing that truly doesn't stop is time itself.
Marriage, honeymoon—typical events, half fun, half routine. They passed quickly, almost like a blur. Before I could even grasp what was happening, I was running—chasing time, chasing tasks. Work, home, family… I tried, really tried, to adapt to this new life.
Maybe it's harder for people who've lived alone for a long time to adjust to marriage. Sometimes, I just wanted hours of solitude—to be with my own thoughts. I didn't want to see anyone.
As I said in earlier chapters, I'm only touching lightly on my marriage. I'm not ready yet—emotionally or mentally—to dive into the full reckoning that came with it. One day, maybe, I'll write a new book called "A Divorce, A Reckoning". The title's already there. But I don't know when—or even if—I'll be ready to pour those years into words. Maybe never. Some things are just too heavy to revisit.
Two months after the wedding, I woke up one morning aching inside. I'd seen Chris in my dream again. I couldn't recall where or how, but the pain lingered in my chest long after I opened my eyes. Every time I dreamt of him, it hurt—like my heart was being wrung out. But next to me, another man was lying in bed. And I was aching for someone else.
"Forgive me, God," I whispered.
Maybe the divorce was for the best after all.
Everything had been wrong from the start. We weren't compatible. He was insistent, demanding—he suffocated me. I tried so hard to hold it together. I didn't want my child to grow up without a father. I stayed silent for over a year. Cried quietly. Tolerated the arguments. But the fights kept coming. Week after week. And after our child was born, he seemed to unravel—burdened by responsibilities, frustrated, and taking it all out on me.
Like I said, I can't yet write that story. Not now. Not like this.
That morning, on my way to work, I called Chris again. His number—I know it by heart. He answered:
"Yes?"
He said it a few more times. I didn't speak. Just listened.
It was 2025, and I still remembered his number by heart—the same number he'd used for years. But now, that number is gone. A couple of years ago, I tried again. "This number is no longer in service," it said. I didn't pursue it further.
Since 2023, I've stopped checking. No more fake accounts, no more silent scrolling. My body is too tired for that kind of longing. Now I just love from afar—quietly, silently. Like I always have.