I started to feel moments—fleeting at first—of genuine calm. Not happiness, not yet, but peace.
Some days were still hard. There were mornings when I woke up and instinctively reached for the other side of the bed. Nights when I ate dinner alone and felt the quiet press against me like a heavy blanket. But the hard moments didn’t consume me the way they used to. They came and went like weather—uncomfortable, but temporary.
One morning, I realized something else.
I had stopped imagining Adrien walking back into my life with a grand confession:
I’m ready now. I choose you. Please come home.
That fantasy had died quietly, without ceremony.
And what surprised me most?
I didn’t miss it.
A few weeks later, a group of friends invited me to a small dinner gathering. I almost didn’t go. I still wasn’t sure how to be social without feeling like I was wearing someone else’s skin. But I forced myself out of the house.
At dinner, something unexpected happened.
I laughed. Genuinely. Freely. Not the strained, “I’m fine” kind of laugh I’d been faking. Someone told a dumb story about accidentally texting their boss instead of their boyfriend, and I doubled over laughing so hard water came out of my nose. It was embarrassing and real.
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