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And since we started the relationship, those fears and thoughts wouldn’t let me rest, buried deep in my subconscious, always clinging to me like shadows.

I’ve been working—and I’m still working—on mastering these swirling thoughts and fears. But that doesn’t mean they’ve vanished, or that everything is suddenly resolved. They linger, especially during this uncertain stretch when I know nothing for sure.

Yet, at least I’ve come to understand why I feel this way about him—why, in all other areas of my life, I stand so firmly, confidently in my own power, yet with him, the ground shifts beneath me. It’s like he holds the key to some part of me I’ve never truly seen until now.

And therapy? It’s not a magic cure.

Healing doesn’t come handed to us. It lives inside us, dormant and waiting, demanding relentless effort and unwavering focus if we’re ever to nurture the light within and turn our gaze toward the parts of ourselves that can grow.

Healing is a journey not of waiting, but of fighting—fighting to reclaim your own story, to find strength in your vulnerability, and to hold on to hope even when the path is cloaked in doubt.

The flight from London to New York is long—too long—and instead of calming my nerves, it only seems to amplify them. With every hour that passes, the knot in my stomach tightens, until by the time the plane touches down, I’m ten times more anxious than when I left.

Stepping off the plane, I find the car waiting for me just outside, like the other time. My heart races as I slide into the seat, clutching the hope that when I get to his place, he’ll be there.

It’s Sunday, Nick had a home game yesterday, so today he should be home.

I arrive at his building and punch in the code for the underground parking. Holding my breath, chest tight, frozen in time, wondering if he changed it.

When I hear the barrier click open, a weight lifts off my chest. I exhale—just a little relieved—but I know the hardest part is still yet to come, just a few steps away. A few steps that might shatter me.

I get out of the car, murmuring a quiet thank you to the driver. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth down my clothes, trying to steady my racing heart. Every breath feels tight. Every second stretches endlessly.

I walk toward the private elevator—its sleek metal doors gleaming under the soft lights, like nothing ever changed, though everything has.

Pausing a moment before pressing the button, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me, but it only feels like it’s growing.

I enter the code with shaky fingers, my eyes on the panel, hoping it works—praying that something, anything, still belongs to me here.

The doors slide open smoothly, and I let out a small sigh of relief. For now, everything is just like before.

One minute later, the elevator doors slide open again with that familiar chime, and I step into the living room, my heart pounding like a relentless drum.

No sooner have I set foot inside than a woman’s voice rings out clearly, echoing through the silence I had hoped would bring me peace.

“Nick, you’re home already? That’s great. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat, and a cold shiver crawls down my spine. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. My chest tightens, ribs locked in place, as if the walls themselves are closing in.

And in this moment, I realize the calm I was searching for is nothing but an illusion.

I remain completely still for a few moments, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure the whole building can hear it. Confusion, disbelief, and a sharp sting of betrayal swirls inside me, twisting my stomach into knots.

There’s a woman in Nick’s apartment.

Judging by the sounds coming from the open kitchen connected to the living room, she's cooking for him—a simple act that suddenly feels like a loud declaration—he’s moved on.

My legs feel heavy, like they're made of stone, and I don’t dare take another step. My mind races, desperate to deny what I’m hearing, but the reality sinks in like a cold wave crashing over me.

Someone else is here. Someone else is sharing his life. And I’m standing on the outside, invisible and forgotten.

I try to steady my breathing, to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to break free—pain, jealousy, and a deep, aching loneliness.

But mostly, an overwhelming sense of loss—of what we were, and what I thought we still could be.

Deciding I can’t bear this pain any longer, that what I just heard is proof enough that Nick left my life for good five months ago, I slowly turn around, ready to head back to the elevator.

But then, to my surprise, I realize he’s right behind me—arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against the wall beside the elevator. Watching me.