And sure, breakups are hell. But it’s worse when they’re a secret. When you can’t tell your best friend. When you can’t tell your husband that you no longer live with. The loneliness is suffocating—just me and my secrets, and years with Jacob, knowing deep down he was never right for me. Now, without Dylan, separation was supposed to bring clarity. Instead, it’s just another layer of unbearable waiting. And more unknowns.
My mind spins in endless loops, each thought playing tricks on me. Was any of it real? Did he love me, or was I just a challenge? Maybe Dylan wanted the version of me without complications, responsibilities, or scars. Maybe I was an escape from his own burdens, the same way he was for me at first.
I grab my phone again. My fingers tremble as I type.
You broke me. My heart. Even my damn pussy. I haven’t had an orgasm since you. Have you moved on? Are you happy? Because I want you to be miserable without me. I’ve been waiting for you to call me, tell me to leave my husband, to fix us. And I hate that I ended it.
My thumb hovers over the message. Every word filled with torment, but I let out a shaky breath and delete it. Sometimes, I wish I’d hit send by accident. Instead, the heartache just grows louder.
God, I miss him…
I. Miss. Him.
I miss him, I miss him—I fucking MISS him.
Hey GOD? Universe? Anyone? Did you hear me? I said I fucking miss him.
These words are stuck on replay, as if thinking them hard enough, screaming them loud enough, could bring him back.
But he’s not coming back. Because he was never mine.
And it was never about the sex, or his handsome face and annoyingly hot body, though those things didn’t hurt. It was the way he saw me. The way he looked at me. Like I was more than a woman who does dishes and folds everyone's laundry. The way he desired me. Not just for my body, but the woman underneath.
How do you let go of that?
The phone rattles on the counter, and my heart leaps. I lunge for it, hoping for a split second it’s Dylan, but it’s a message from Mom.
Not him. Never him.
And the doubt creeps in again, darker this time.Was it all a lie?Would someone fake what we had for sex? He could have had anyone. Why me?
I watch the rain fall on the window as my new mantra repeats in my head.Let him go. Let. Him. Go. In the background, a podcast about heartbreak and healing is on:“What did he give you that you can’t give yourself? What would you tell a friend in your position?”
Blah. Blah. Blah. None of it helps. Self-help can’t fix a shattered heart.
And right now? I’m just a woman sitting on her mother’s couch, trying to believe this pain won’t last forever.
“Do I have a hole in my butt?” Ava comes rushing into the kitchen, bent over, pointing to her cute little behind.
I laugh. “Don’t we all?”
“No, Mommy, look,” she cries out, pointing to the tear in her favorite reindeer pajamas.
“Don’t worry, I can fix it,” I say, wishing I could stitch my own life back together that easily.
Every day is a battle not to text him. Some stubborn part of me refuses to believe this is the end. Sooner or later, we’ll talk again.
I look down at the date on my phone. “June 18.” Dylan’s birthday. My pulse quickens. Thirty-four years ago, the most unforgettable human being was born. A man I had the privilege of loving.
Surely a simple birthday text can't change anything. He probably won’t even respond. Still, the options swirl in my head. Each one more torturous than the last.
Option one: Do nothing. Things stay the same. Hopefully, I stop missing him.
Option two: Text him. He doesn’t reply.
Option three: We talk again—as friends. Except we can’t be friends.
Option four: We become lovers again. End up in the same heartbreak. Or worse, Jacob finds out.
