Spill it. Ask it. Let it go. Just breathe — you’re not alone.

He thinks we’re best friends. I laugh at his jokes, listen to his heartbreaks, and pretend I’m okay with all of it. But every time he hugs me goodbye, I carry the scent of what I’ll never have. And I smile like I’m fine, even though my whole chest aches.

I did something small today: I got out of bed, made coffee, and took a shower. Three steps. And then I clapped for myself. Literally. Out loud. Alone in my apartment. Because this week has been hell, and I did something anyway.

I tell my therapist the truth — mostly. But there’s one thing I’ve never said out loud. Not to anyone. It’s not even that dramatic. It’s just the thing that makes me feel most ashamed. And until I can say it to someone else, I’ll keep carrying it here.

We made a playlist together — one of those collaborative ones on Spotify. Breakup songs, ironically. When we split, I kept listening to it like it was a living thing. She stopped adding songs weeks ago. I still do. It’s stupid. But I think part of me likes pretending we’re still curating something together.

I made a second phone number just so I could text myself. I send little encouragements, reminders, even jokes — and then I reply. It sounds pathetic, maybe, but it helps. It feels like someone’s there. And maybe, in a way, I am.

My dad had this chipped coffee mug that said “#1 Griller” on it. He used it every morning, even though the handle had a crack. After he died, I took it home. It sits on my shelf now, still chipped, still warm in memory. Some mornings I just hold it and breathe. I guess grief lives in objects sometimes.