What if’s and the hope of tomorrow

Today is July 14th, and it’s the end of the day. I find myself crying alone in bed, because today marks six months since my alabaster prince broke up with me and the fairytale ended. And the thing is, I’ve come so far. I should be immensely proud of that. I’ve built new friendships, started writing seriously, made art, and am on the edge of financial stability. And yet, all I can think about is what if. What if I’d had this kind of growth while we were still together? What if I had another chance? Would it have saved us?

I know how desperate that sounds. Holding on to something already gone. But in my heart of hearts, I still love that man as deeply as I did the first day he kissed me. It’s a quiet kind of love now — like a heartbeat or a breath. Constant, involuntary.

Tonight, I feel it more acutely. I went through the entire day not realizing its significance until I started reading some old writing. I’ve been thinking that there’s another deep love coming for me on the horizon. I should be excited. I should be open to the possibility of new love. But if I’m honest, I don’t want something new. I want what I had.

Maybe that says something about me. About the way I’ve always idealized the good moments of my past — framed them as proof that happiness existed. Even if it was scraps. Even if it was survival dressed up as love. I built versions of people in my head to protect myself. The good parent. The perfect partner. Best friends that never were. The ones who never left.

I’m not suggesting Daniel was like these people who have come in and out of my life. His love wasn’t toxic. It was beautiful. It was real. But I realize now how hard it is to let go of the people you loved, and harder still to let go of the versions you created to survive them.