On the fourth of October, 2021, she told me she doesn’t think she can go on like this anymore. It hit her on the way back home from work. It all seems so mundane. I didn’t know what I would miss would be welcoming her back home every day.

I guess I expected this. I guess I knew. Somewhere.

It took me until December to start feeling what that meant. Started lighting up some cigs for a while. Lots of ice cream. Lots of biryani. Comfort foods. Terrible foods when not in moderation.

Until March when I started feeling like I was alone and on my own from then. For forever, almost.

Until October/November to say I think I’m doing okay. I think we can talk again. I think I’ll be fine.

And this month, I think I’m not doing okay. I have never felt more lonely. I don’t have the strength to do what I did when I was recovering… actively healing.

Some guest at the hotel asked me why I was smoking. I tell him, “I’m going through stuff. This is a clutch. I’ll stop at some point. I have before.” He seems to believe that, but motivates me to anyway. I was simultaneously annoyed, scared, and even grateful that people like him exist.

“Boyfriend troubles?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s raining outside now. It’s gloomy. It’s wintery. I used to love this growing up. Winter was the definition of me. Winter was homely. I would spend 10 months waiting for the winters to arrive. 10 months being sad that it’s not winter anymore. Now I don’t find I relate to any season at all. Maybe autumn is more my thing now? Maybe nothing. I don’t want to wander like this. I want to belong. Change is hard.

I traveled. I’m not a traveler, but I traveled. I’m not a drinks person, but I drank my mind out sometimes when I was traveling. Pretending that you’re happy and care-free is half the journey, isn’t it?

I’m looking back a little bit. It’s helpful to remind myself that that was 2021, and now it’s 2023. It’s not two whole years, but I can make-believe that it is. If it helps, why not?