Where Grief Lives, Love Leaves

I never thought I’d be writing this.

For years, I noticed a pattern. Quiet. Unspoken. But always there.

Young couples, full of hope, dreaming of building a family. Then, somewhere along the way — a pregnancy, followed by a miscarriage. And soon after, a breakup.

I saw it happen so many times that I lost count.

I used to wonder what it was about losing a pregnancy that made lovers drift apart.

I’d ask around. Friends, older people, even therapists’ blogs. No one had a real answer. Most would pause, nod slowly, and say something like, “Yeah... now that you mention it...” And that was it. Nobody ever explained the full weight of it. So, I left the question alone.

Until it happened to me.

I never imagined I’d be one of those people who experienced both a miscarriage and a breakup — but it happened.

She was everything. My best friend. My person.

The one I imagined raising kids with — laughing through late nights, planning little weekend getaways, arguing about what to name our firstborn.

Then, everything changed.

We were going to have a baby. We even started thinking of names.

Naming the baby made it feel real — soft, hopeful, alive.

I remember the day she showed me the pregnancy test.

She had kept it from me for a week, just to be sure.

We took pictures. We joked about baby clothes. We made a folder called Our Little Bean.

And then, suddenly... silence.

Miscarriage.

No heartbeat.

Hospital visits. Ultrasounds that stopped showing progress.

A technician with a voice too soft to be real. I am sorry, the technician said.

Grief doesn’t knock. It crashes through the door, flips everything upside down, and dares you to find your footing again. We both tried. She withdrew.

I became quieter. She couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Conversations became sighs. Touch became tension. And slowly, we stopped being us.

What I didn’t realize then was how grief works. It doesn’t just hurt — it separates. It isolates. It turns your partner into a mirror you’re scared to look into. Every time I looked at her, I saw the loss. And I know she saw it in me too.

We blamed ourselves. Silently. In our own minds.

Was it something I did? Something she ate? Was it the stress? Were we too young? Too hopeful?

There was no villain, yet we became victims of our own thoughts. I remember one night I touched her shoulder and she flinched. Not because she didn’t love me, but because even love had become too heavy to carry.

She didn’t say goodbye in person.

I was at work when the message came in.

Just a few lines. But they shattered everything.

I’ve tried Clinton, I cant. Every day feels heavier, and I don’t know how to breathe in this anymore. I tried. I can’t stay. I’m sorry.

I stared at the screen, reading it over and over, as if the words might change.

I didn’t reply.

What could I say? That I understood? That I hated it? That I still loved her?

By the time I got home, she was already gone. Her side of the closet empty. A drawer half-open. The teacup she always used left on the counter — clean, as if she wanted to do one last small thing right.

The baby blanket we bought was still folded in the closet. Like a question we never got to answer.

No slammed doors. No shouting. Just... absence.

I sat on the edge of the bed and read her message again.

Then I whispered the reply I never sent:

Me too.

And let the silence say the rest.

After that, I found myself doing strange things. Pouring two mugs of tea out of habit. Talking out loud as if she’d answer from the next room. Scrolling through our old messages. The ultrasound picture. That baby blanket we bought just in case — still in the closet. Folded. Untouched.

That’s when I understood what no one tells you: it’s not just the baby you lose. You lose the version of each other that believed in tomorrow. You lose the daydreams. The goofy fights over crib colours. The names you wrote on sticky notes. The feeling of being part of a miracle.

And if you’re not careful, you lose yourselves too.

We didn’t break up because we didn’t love each other. We broke up because grief moved in, and there wasn’t enough room for the both of us. Because every hug started to feel like a reminder. Every silence, a wound. And we were too tired to heal together.

Sometimes I still catch myself pouring her tea. The cup with the chip on the handle she always used. I let it sit. Let it go cold. Then drink it anyway. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my way of remembering.

Maybe somewhere, she’s doing the same.

Maybe not.

But I remember everything. The way she laughed. The way she danced when we got the two lines. The way we argued over dinosaur versus star patterns for baby clothes. And most of all — how deeply we loved, even in loss.

Grief still visits. Some nights it sleeps next to me. Other days, it hides in baby aisles at the supermarket. But so does love. Faint now. Quiet. Like the echo of a lullaby I don’t know how to sing anymore.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because where grief lives… love becomes a shadow — always there, just out of reach.

Please leave a Like, comment and subscribe. Also read: The Power of Letting Go