Take the chicken out of the freezer

But before we say goodbye...

I like writing about falling in love.

I have a harder time writing about the endings.

I want to squeeze as many sweet moments and fond memories into the pages as I can before we say goodbye.

I want to tell you about the full moon.

Each month, Book Boyfriend and I would have a bonfire on the full moon. We would sit by the flames and enjoy a drink of hot cocoa, tea, or champagne. We would stay off our phones for the most part and simply be together. No expectations. Just exist.

I think this is when I felt the most genuinely connected to him.

Sometimes we would sit in silence for a bit. Enjoy the sound of the fire crackling. Observe the tiny clouds that appeared each time we exhaled into the cold air.

Sometimes we would “manifest.”

Which really looked like us Googling how to manifest under the moon each month. We would listen to TikTokers tell us how this moon specifically would change our lives and giggle, while maybe silently hoping it was true.

Mostly, though, we would talk.

We would talk about dreams.

We would talk about heartache.

We would bring forth intimate and scary truths that were too hard to say in any other context.

Often, our fireside chats led to the same relationship discussion.

We will not work.

We will not end up together.

However, we will not regret each other either.

We will look back on our time together with gratitude.

His dreams were not bigger than mine. They were different. Very, very different.

My heart was not bigger than his. It was different. Very, very different.

We would speak these truths out loud, into the universe, under the moon.

But then nothing would change.

Something needed to change.

The day it ended

I was in love with him.

I wasn’t strong enough to leave.

I knew we weren’t right.

I knew he didn’t feel the same way.

I knew we didn’t want the same things.

I think I ignored it for so long because I just wanted to be around him. Being near him, knowing it would eventually end someday, felt better than not being near him at all.

I knew he didn’t love me.

I just needed proof. Concrete proof.

I’m not proud of how I decided to get it.

I’m not proud of a lot of the things I was doing at this time in my life.

I swear I tried talking to him first.

I asked about the female names that always popped up on his phone.

I asked about the multitude of models he followed on Instagram.

I swear... I tried to talk to him first.

I went through his phone.

I was wearing a blue sweatshirt and leggings. My hair was down. My son was home.

I remember every detail of that day because that was the day my heart broke so severely I wasn’t sure it would ever beat the way it used to again.

The first text was to me.

“Please take the chicken out of the freezer.”

The next text was not.

Crack. Break. Snag.

This feeling is difficult, but it’s not unfamiliar to so many who fall in love.

My head is spinning.

My heart is beating too fast.

My stomach feels sick.

My hands are shaking.

My breathing comes more rapidly now.

It hurts.

It physically hurts.

I can feel it in my chest. The cracking. The breaking. A heart he helped mend opening up at the seams.

I can’t breathe.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t real.

This isn’t happening.

I can still have him.

I can still keep him.

No.

Please, no.

I love him.

My son loves him.

What have I done?

What has he done?

God, it hurts.

It actually hurts.

I place my hand on my chest, trying to keep the pieces together, but I can’t. It’s shattered into too many scraps. It’s too much. I can’t hold it. I can’t fix it.

I can’t…

“Mommy, are you coming back downstairs?”

I stand up. I don’t know when I ended up on the floor.

I stop crying.

I wipe the mascara that’s now cemented under my eyes.

I take a deep breath.

Then another.

“Be right down, baby,” I yell.

I walk downstairs and give him a big hug, asking what he would like to do today.

Then I walk toward the kitchen

and take the chicken out of the freezer.

Anger

Yeah. I’m angry.

I have plans.

I will call his mom.

I will scratch his car.

I will throw his clothes on the lawn.

I will throw his plant out the window.

I will text her.

No.

No, I won’t do any of that.

That would hurt him, and his actions didn’t make me love him any less.

I don’t wish to see him hurt.

There won’t be yelling.

There won’t be broken plates or high heels hurling toward him.

There won’t be screaming.

Just a quiet disappointment.

Just a silent heartache.

He comes home, and he can tell right away that something is wrong. He notes that I look sick. That my face is pale.

I tell him what I know.

His face changes too.

The rest of that time was a blur.

A blur of conversations.

Pain.

Confusion.

Understanding.

Compassion.

Shame.

Grace.

Exhaustion.

More pain.

Just a blur of what real heartbreak looks like.

It’s familiar.

I know it will get better this time.

But today, it hurts.

Tomorrow, it will hurt more.

Someday, though, it will be okay.

I can stitch it back up

little by little,

day by day,

word by word.

I will be okay.

He will be okay.

We won’t be together.

But we will be okay.

Happily Ever After

What did you expect?

A happily ever after?

It’s called Separation Story Time for a reason.