And for a few minutes, I wasn’t thinking about Adrien or proposals or timelines. I was just me, a version of me I hadn’t felt in a long time.
After dinner, on the shy walk back to my car, one of my friends said softly, “It’s good to see you like this again.”
And I realized she was right.
It was good.
Over time—not all at once, but slowly—I began to understand something essential. I had been pouring myself into a relationship that asked me to wait and wait and wait. And in the process, I had put my own life on pause.
Learning to be alone wasn’t just about missing Adrien. It was about reclaiming the parts of myself I had abandoned while hoping he’d eventually choose me.
And for the first time since the breakup, the thought of my future didn’t terrify me. It felt open. Unwritten. Mine.
A few months after the split, I finally moved a small table and two chairs onto my balcony. I’d sit out there at night with a drink, letting the quiet wrap around me. Not heavy anymore, but comforting.
One evening, as I watched the city lights blink in the distance, I took a deep breath and realized I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t unlovable. I wasn’t abandoned.
I was healing.
And, more importantly, I was learning how to choose myself, even when someone else couldn’t choose me.
Months passed. Enough time that I could go entire days without thinking about Adrien. Enough time that the silence in my apartment no longer felt like abandonment. It felt like ownership. Enough time that I could say his name out loud without my stomach twisting.
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