I am having an enlightenment at two in the morning, when I should be sleeping, but the allure of a mental breakthrough is so tempting, so I stay up.

I think about how a relationship is like a plant in a pot, how I am the plant, spreading my roots, and the relationship defines the boundaries of the pot, and I keep trying to grow, but I can’t anymore, and I feel myself slowly dying in this small, suffocating pot. I realize now that K. and I have reached our natural limit, the edges of the pot defining how far we can go, and for us to evolve, to reach the next stage of growth, we would have needed a bigger pot, one that lets us spread out, become something greater, larger. Who we are defines the boundaries of the pot, and we are too small for it now. 

I think about how endings aren’t really endings, because every ending is also a new beginning, and so there aren’t any true endings in life. It’s all one big circle, the cyclic nature of everything. I think about the day my cat died, and how painful it was, how it felt like something in me was ripped away, but then I remember how his presence transformed into something else. I planted lavender on his grave, and now, instead of a barren patch of earth in the garden, I see lavender swaying in the wind, and it reminds me that nothing really dies, it just changes form, and I find peace in that thought, as much as I can.

I think about the memories I shared with K., and they come rushing back, thick and fast, overwhelming me at times. I let them touch me, wash over me, I let myself feel their presence, and sometimes I can’t breathe because it’s too much, it feels like I’m drowning in all of it, but I let the pain do its job, I let the wounds heal. I know this is the healthiest way to approach it, to let it out instead of keeping it in. And when it feels like I can’t take it anymore, I ground myself in the present: five things I see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, and suddenly, the pain isn’t so bad, not entirely gone, but manageable. Sometimes, the memories are like clouds floating by. I acknowledge them, watch them drift by, and don’t hold on. I can’t block them out, I don’t want to numb them, so I let them pass.

And I think about the end of the relationship, and how it feels like the chance for us both to go on separate journeys now, journeys of self-discovery, to learn about ourselves, to learn from each other, to take what we’ve shared and carry it forward in different ways. I don’t know where those journeys will take us, or if our paths will cross again, but I imagine us as different people if that happens, strangers who have grown in separate directions, perhaps bumping into each other on the street, barely recognizing each other, but that’s alright. Every love story begins with two strangers, anyway.

12 hours later. 

I am on my way to pick up my things from K.’s house, and I’ve prepared a list of things to say to him, things I’ve rehearsed in my head a hundred times.

Thanks for everything: check.

Let’s be friends: check.

Let’s keep the Japan trip: check.

Sobbing on the floor, begging for forgiveness: double check.

Okay, I’m joking about the last one.

Except, he throws me a curveball. He sends me a message saying he’s not home and tells me to let myself in, gather my things, leave. How convenient, I think, how clever too. I hadn’t considered being absent as an option, but I see now how genius it is, because this way, I can gather my things without breaking down, becoming one big mess on the floor that looks as though it was cleaned yesterday. 

I walk through his house one last time, taking in the air, the energy of the rooms where we shared so many moments. I let it all go, slowly, and then all at once.

In the kitchen, I find a pile of memories waiting for me—everything he’s gathered, now heaped in the backseat of my car. I think I’ll clear it out tonight, once the weather cools, and I grab something to eat too.

Before leaving, I find a piece of paper and a pen. I write him a short message, the things I wanted to say from my list, minus the tear stains, and place it on his bedside table, where I know he’ll see it, possibly during bedtime.

A little devious, perhaps. A small part of me hopes the words will keep insomnia close at bay for him tonight. I don’t care. Okay, maybe just a little.