Was he unsure from the beginning?
Was it something I did?
Was it something I didn’t do?
Did he ever picture a future with me the way I pictured one with him?
I hated how much mental energy I poured into questions I’d never get answers to.
Laya checked in constantly, showing up with food, dragging me out for coffee, forcing me to watch trashy reality shows with her. She was the kind of friend who refused to let you drown quietly.
One night she said, “You’re too nice about this. You’re grieving a man who couldn’t even tell you he was sure about you. You deserve certainty, Meera.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But knowing something and believing it are two very different things.”
By the second month on my own, something inside me began to shift. Not dramatically, not all at once, but in small, steady ways.
I stopped checking my phone every hour.
I stopped replaying the proposals every night before falling asleep.
I stopped trying to diagnose what was wrong with me.
And I started doing little things just for me.
Buying flowers for myself every weekend. Going on walks at sunset with a podcast in my ear and no destination in mind. Cooking actual meals instead of surviving on takeout. Buying a plant I kept alive for longer than a week—something Adrien would have laughed at because I once killed a cactus.
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