Chapter 3 Some mornings, still missing him

Some mornings, I wake up before the sun. Not because I'm rested, but because something in me still thinks you might call. The sky is gray, the kind of light that blurs dreams into memory, and for a moment I forget we aren't us anymore. I still reach for my phone, half-expecting a "Good morning, love" waiting like it used to. But it's never there. Just an empty screen and a silence that stretches louder than any words ever could.

I sit in bed and scroll-not to catch up on the world, but to fall into memories. It's a dangerous kind of comfort, rereading old chats and watching saved videos. In one, he's in bed, tousled hair and sleep in his eyes, whispering, "Wish you were here." In another, we're both laughing, caught in one of those messy, giddy moments that only happen when two people feel completely safe.

But safety doesn't mean permanence. And laughter doesn't mean forever.

Lately, I've noticed how much the little things hurt. A photo of pancakes reminds me of that Sunday morning when we both made breakfast on video call, racing to see who'd burn theirs first. The blue mug in my cabinet-the one he picked out for me during an online shopping spree-feels too sacred to touch. And don't even get me started on the songs.

I thought time would blunt the ache. I thought a month apart would lessen the sting. But grief is strange. Some days, I feel okay. Almost light. And then a stranger walks by wearing his cologne and suddenly I'm right back at the beginning.

I needed something. Some kind of anchor. So I did the one thing I never thought I would: I booked a therapy session.

It wasn't dramatic. Just a quiet decision, like brushing my teeth or making my bed. A simple, necessary act of care. I didn't tell anyone. I wasn't ready for the questions or the pity. But I showed up. On time. Breathing hard, hands shaking, but I showed up.

The therapist's office was warm, filled with soft colors and the faint scent of lavender. I sat on the couch like a guest in someone else's grief. She smiled at me gently and said, "Start wherever you want."

I wanted to start with him. But instead, I started with me.

"I feel like I'm standing still while the world keeps spinning," I said. "Like I lost someone who was home."

She nodded. "Tell me about the home he gave you."

And I did. For the first time without filters or emojis or trying to be okay. I told her about the way he made me laugh when everything felt too heavy. About the sacrifices we made for time zones-me staying up past midnight, him waking up at dawn, both of us fighting sleep just to see each other's face. I told her about the future we built in whispers-what we'd name our kids, where we'd live, how we'd dance in the kitchen like idiots on Sunday mornings.

"He wasn't just a person," I whispered. "He was a plan."

Tears came quietly, as they always do when the words feel too big for the room.

"He cheated," I finally admitted. "And I know that should've made it easier to let go. But it didn't. It broke me, because I still love him."

She didn't interrupt. She didn't rush me. She just let the silence fill the spaces where my breath stuttered.

By the end of the session, I felt lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But lighter. Like I had unclenched something I'd been gripping too tightly.

That night, I opened my journal for the first time in months. I didn't write about him. I wrote about me. I wrote, "I survived today." And that was enough.

The next morning, I walked outside without headphones. I listened to birdsong instead of sad songs. I noticed how the air smelled-crisp, new. For a moment, I let myself believe that healing was possible. That maybe I didn't have to carry him forever.

But I still miss him. Not the betrayal. Not the break. But the version of him who held me together when everything else was falling apart.

And I think I always will.

Sometimes healing means learning to carry both-the love and the loss. Sometimes it means letting the memory walk beside you instead of dragging behind.

I don't know what comes next. But I do know this:

I'm still here.

I'm still breathing.

And that counts for something.

What surprised me most was how my body remembered before my mind did. I walked past the café where we once FaceTimed for hours, and my hands tingled like they were waiting to hold his. I ordered his usual drink by accident and didn't realize until I tasted it-sweet, a little bitter, just like him.

I think healing comes in the small decisions. Like texting a friend instead of him. Like changing the ringtone that used to be his song. Like standing in front of the mirror and whispering, "You're okay," even when I don't fully believe it yet.

I started keeping a list. Not a pros and cons list about him, but a list of things I still want to do-things I put on hold when he became my whole world. Learn to paint. Travel to Portugal. Start my own podcast. Adopt a dog. Things that belong only to me.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is remember who you were before the world told you who to love.

And on the days when I feel brave, I whisper to the past version of me-the girl who waited for video calls at 3 a.m., who believed love was enough, who forgave what she shouldn't have: "Thank you for surviving. But we're moving on now."

It doesn't mean I don't miss him. It just means I miss me more.

And little by little, I'm finding her again.

It might take time, I won't lie it hurts, it's hurting but it's Gon be ok