There were three months last year that, on the surface, looked like something out of a soft-focus film. You know the type — sunshine filtering through windows, spontaneous laughter, hand-holding on walks that didn’t feel performative. I genuinely believed, for a moment, that I’d cracked it. That elusive thing — happiness, contentment… maybe even love. Real love. The kind that wraps around you quietly, without demanding a grand announcement.
And for a while, it was all of that.
I fell in love. Unexpectedly. Unashamedly. The kind of falling that catches you off guard — not fireworks and drama, but something slower, deeper, something that made sense of all the noise that had come before. My world, which had felt untethered and uncertain, suddenly clicked into place. It felt safe. It felt mutual. I started to believe I was allowed this.
But then, as quickly and as quietly as it arrived, it fell apart.
No massive explosion. No spectacular betrayal. Just a gradual unraveling. A shift in tone. A withdrawal I couldn’t stop or fix or even fully understand. Like someone slowly dimming the lights until you’re sitting in the dark wondering when it all changed — and why you didn’t notice it happening.
I tried to hold on. To ask the right questions, say the right things, be the version of me they needed. But the truth is, if someone’s already halfway out the door in their mind, your words become wallpaper. Nicely patterned. Ultimately ignored.
What makes it all sting more is the contrast. The fact that those three months had felt so good. Not perfect — nothing ever is — but full of hope. For someone who’s struggled with believing they deserve happiness, those weeks were a kind of proof. Proof that maybe I was lovable. That maybe things could be good.
So when it fell apart, it wasn’t just the relationship I lost — it was the version of myself I was starting to like. The hopeful me. The trusting me.
I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing it because it happened, and pretending otherwise feels dishonest. Sometimes things don’t end with answers or closure or a clean emotional exit. Sometimes they just end, and you’re left to sweep up the bits on your own.
But I did love. And for a brief moment, I was happy. And I suppose that has to count for something.
Maybe not everything…
But something.