The Aftermath

You.

There was before you

And there was during you

For some reason, I never thought there'd be an after you

But there it was

And I was in it

I'll be in it forever

Reminders of him

Colleen Hoover

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I’ve never read this book, but I’m online enough to know this beautiful quote.

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Before you

The quote doesn’t exactly describe our story because there was no before you. I don’t remember anything of the sort. It felt like I was born knowing you, like I was born to know you, like I had known you all my life. I believe it felt that way because it was true.

You were written into every chapter of my story. There was just always you— that’s what I remember.

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During you

Bliss. No better word for it.

Now I was the one consciously writing you into every chapter, every page, every line, every word and every letter. You were the SI unit of my existence.

I wanted you to be involved, and for the most part, it felt like you wanted to be too and it felt nice. It always feels nice to give yourself to someone who’s willing to receive you.

I was in love, not necessarily romantically or in whatever way people think. There were no butterflies in my tummy and I didn’t feel any dramatic heart tugs. This was deeper than that. It was steady. It was soft. It was safe. I didn’t feel consumed, so it wasn’t scary at all.

Because of how safe I felt, I convinced myself that you would always be around, and that I would never have to grieve you. Naive, I know. I really wish I ruled out every possibility of this ending up in me being hurt, but how could I when I was just living in bliss?

During you, it was hard to define the relationship we had. I loved and I was loved— that was enough for me. I was okay with that. Everything was fine until it wasn’t.

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After you

It wasn’t a clean break. It was not sudden. It was like cutting through a thick mud block with a blunt knife— slow, messy and painful.

Somehow, I knew it was happening but I was helpless to stop it. You obviously didn’t want me to stop it. With each passing day, you leisurely disappeared from the pages.

I finally realized that I had mostly written you in with my best pencil when you stealthily began to erase yourself. You didn’t want me to know because you knew I would have tried to stop it. I would have recalibrated you in the most permanent ink.

I eventually wound up with a deep cut that I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I got, but I knew it was you who put it there. All I could do was try to stop it from hemorrhaging. I didn't want to die.

I didn’t realize it was possible to grieve someone who is still living until after you. I’ve grieved you. I still grieve you. Oh, I hope I won’t always grieve you. I’ve tried to help myself, perform catharsis to release everything we had, everything I’ve held onto.

It hasn’t been very successful because I went back to that damning book, and I discovered something that was written in ink: I love you. It’s a mystery how that happened, but there it was in the middle of a page, written in deep black ink and in my favourite handwriting.

I’ve sought advice on how to get it off, so that I can move on in my new reality— the aftermath of this, but I was told that I can’t logistically get it out of there without ruining the page which is already so worn from soaking up my tears.

Well, I am learning to be okay with the fact that a little part of me will always love you. Isn’t it such an oxymoron that the human heart is able to hold joy and pain simultaneously? Love and grief? I've experienced it firsthand. I still think about you and smile even with the pain I feel, because there was during you.

Getting back our rhythm is possible, but it’s not a possibility I’m open to. Now that I’ve seen what after you can do and has done to me, it would be masochistic to subject myself to that again.

So, I love you, but I can no longer hold space for you.

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Thank you for reading. This is a work of my imagination with little inspiration from real life events. Writing this was so much fun for me. I'd love to read your thoughts. Bye.