My dear Jack,

I told you once that if something happened, I think I would have it worse than you because I had never felt heartbreak before. I think I was right. I know I’ve gotten stronger in some ways because of what happened and that this is life, this is growth. But this is also grief—from being separated from the first man I fell in love with + was intimate with + imagined a future with—11 months later. I had no idea that being with you that first week of May last year would be the last time I saw you. I replay everything, brunch with you, sex with you, meaningful conversations with you, so many walks with you, always having one hand on you and being so close to you, sitting on the same side of the booth because sitting across from you was too far. The sunshine reminds me of you, bottomless cups of coffee at cafes remind me of you, songs about death remind me of you, Norah Jones reminds me of you, dark grey Kias remind me of you, even my faith reminds me of you. My grief runs deep; I feel pain and I hurt when I have to leave the city to visit family or even just to drive home for the night. Because you’re here, we met here, this city and these streets grew on me because I explored them with you—being away from it feels like being even further away from you. Which is awful, I know, because you’re with someone else now. You can’t apologize for the timing of relationships—when people connect, it happens when it happens. But so does grief.

I wonder often if you’ve forgotten me—because so much has happened, so much pain we’ve felt, so many messages we deleted and pictures we never took because our relationship was secret. So many new memories you’re making. I sometimes think we have nothing to show for what we had, except pain and growth. So much of the pain came from my end of things, from my family, and my weakness, from my inability to stand up for you, from my fear.

My grief looks like distance from God now. It looks like not really breathing unless I’m outside and on my own. It’s weight and appetite loss, it’s only temporary relief when I’m distracted by the very few things that catch my attention long enough for that.
But my grief is also a renewed commitment to self-actualization, to independence, to self-care, to God. My grief is a commitment to personal development—something you taught by example. You really are a teacher. I sometimes worry the only reason I am committed to moving out is because it could mean having the independence which my lack of lead to our separation. I try to make that not the case and to renew my intentions, because otherwise this grief will chain me to you. Nayyirah Waheed said it best—your soul stained my shoulders. my whole life smells like you. this will take time. undoing you from my blood.

I imagine that if we ever meet/try again, we’ll have to get to know each other again, start mostly from scratch. But my heart will already know you, it will always remember. I pray this aching at least dulls soon, that I continue to grow as I learn how to lean on and show up for and ground myself. I pray you see and feel and share Love wherever you are, whatever you do, whomever you’re with. And I pray we meet again, my dear Jack, even if it’s a different kind of Love between us.

Always,

N