9.3 Tuesday night

It was a Tuesday night. The roads were wet. I was beyond tired but determined to work out at the gym like I always do. I got in my car and drove. It felt like any other Tuesday night: the same faces at the gym, the same machines, the same weights. But this time, you were there. I hadn’t seen you in over a year.

Seeing someone I once loved so dearly shook me to my core. Anxiety overtook me, and I felt fear building inside. There you were, with someone else. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It was like a car crash involving someone who used to be my whole life. How could I not stare? The familiarity of you—the backpack I bought you, the way your hair was combed, the shape of your face—made it impossible not to look.

I fled. I thought I could stay and face these feelings, but instead, I ran, desperately trying to call anyone who would pick up. My cousin answered, and I screamed about you, about the girl you were with, about my anxiety. This feeling was like no other—a brutal collision with the reality that our story had ended. The tiny hope I clung to evaporated instantly.

I’d been lying to myself, telling myself I was fine, but I’m not. It’s as if God had to show me the reality I refused to see. I prayed my thanks through tears, recognizing that while it hurt, this pain was necessary. I can’t say I haven’t missed you, but seeing you this way made it clear why I needed this moment. You’ve been on my mind all month, but now I see that the person I held onto no longer exists. We no longer exist.

There hadn’t been a “we” for a long time. Denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt; it was the very water I was swimming in, convincing myself that one day we’d fall back in love. I’m grateful, sad, in shock, yet I’m still okay. This was necessary to close my heart. The love I gave you is now a part of our history, forever closed, stored on a high shelf in the corner of my heart. It was a Tuesday night, the roads were wet, I was beyond tired, but you were there, and our story was closed forever.