When I was in college, my boyfriend and I broke up. We’d been together for a few years, and the distance, amongst other things, came in between us. I remember I was eating lunch when he called me and said it was over. I didn’t bother trying not to cry. I was devastated. I was humiliated. I was just about everything you feel when the love of your life calls it quits.
We gave it another shot about a year later, and one of the hardest parts about getting back together was knowing there was a chunk of time missing between us. He’d tell me about friends he’d met or things he’d done or places he’d been, but it felt like he was retelling stories instead of getting to experience it together. I hated that I felt like I didn’t belong within that time frame; I hated that I couldn’t understand. And he felt the same way, told me he hated the way I’d grown in his absence, and he wasn’t there to witness the change.
I shut down a lot. So did he. Anytime he’d try to talk about the time we spent apart, I just felt uneasy and fucking sad. It was unwarranted, for the most part, and I struggled to keep my emotions in check. But it was like anytime we realized there were pieces of each other we didn’t understand on a personal level, it stung. A lot. That was where recovering got tricky. Awkward. One step forward, three steps back.
“We didn’t get to share that together. That’s a part of you I don’t know. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to go back and be a part of it.” - Something my ex said to me that I won’t forget, years and years later.
We never did fully recover, and eventually we realized we were completely different people than we were at the start, people who didn’t fit together anymore. We desperately wanted to mold our lives together, to make it work again. But we didn’t make it.
I wanted to write about a couple who did.
The fic is done. I plan to publish it tomorrow, if all goes according to plan x