I dreaded coming home—to the stillness, the emptiness.
Nothing had really changed, except that he wasn’t there anymore.

Work was its usual chaos. Deadlines. Noise. Stress. And yet, somehow, the world felt unbearably still. As if everything had paused the moment he left. With the idea of him gone, everything felt dull. Pointless. He was a small sense of purpose in my life—and even if it was small, it was still something. Maybe I did love him. Maybe that’s what this is.

I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times: is it love? Or just the anxious, insecure part of me panicking at the loss of connection? Is this grief or just withdrawal from the only kind of closeness I’ve ever known?

I walked for hours today. My feet ache. I took the longest route home, just to avoid the moment I’d have to face this version of reality—the one where he’s no longer part of it.

I bought flowers on the way. I don’t know why. I guess I wanted to feel like something beautiful still existed. But now, as they wilt in the vase, I can barely look at them. Their fading feels like mine. A quiet, painful reminder of everything slipping.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not just about a boy. Not entirely. Not even mostly.
It’s about the weight I carry. The kind of pain that existed long before he ever did.
He didn’t fix me. He didn’t save me. But when he was around, I didn’t feel so alone in my brokenness. I didn’t feel like I was rotting in silence.

And now, that changes.