For the next few days, I see little of Brad and I try to continue my life as normal. I talk incessantly to anyone who will listen about the amalgamation of discontent roaring around my brain. This includes co-workers I barely know, my stuck-in-the-middle roommate, and the friends I had more or less abandoned over the course of the relationship.
Most tell me I am handling things well, though I feel that I could shatter into peaces at any moment. One person tells me that I seem to be moving through the stages of grief in quick succession. It feels more like playing a wicked long game of hopscotch where the numbers keep repeating in random order.
The days pass slowly yet it is suddenly a week since he was mine. I don’t cry anymore, though it would probably only take a few drinks and the right setting to turn me into a sprinkler again. He sleeps on friends’ couches and I go to sleep alone in our queen-sized bed, tucked between a body pillow and a giant stuffed frog. I sleep under a mountain of blankets to make up for the loss of his body heat next to mine. I adjust.
We see each other infrequently compared to when he loved me, yet probably more than most exes do right after separating. I pretend my heart doesn’t race when he comes in unexpectedly. I hope that if I can pretend enough, it will become true that much sooner. I try not to cherish the moments when we can sit together companionably without discussing what went wrong or what the future will hold.
I know that the breakup was actually good for me because I now have my goals back. I know what I want again. Unfortunately, part of what I want is still him. I see his flaws now, where before I thought he was perfect. Yet I cannot shake the love I feel, or the strong desire to collapse in his arms. He is very careful not to touch me.
Life is moving on for both of us. I hope that things are beginning to settle into a mode that we can both live with. Can both be happy with. It just takes time, I suppose.
I am not a patient person.