The Day After (And Why It's OK To Hurt Like Hell)

I never thought I’d write something like this.
 Not because I thought we’d last forever (though I hoped we would) but because I honestly thought I’d be alright. I cry at Pixar films, so I know I'd be sad. But, you know, I'd be upset, but fine. That if it ever ended, I’d handle it with grace. I'd be “a man about it.” Be upset, fold up the memories, put them in a box, and move on slowly.

Instead, two days later, I’m sat in bed in a hoodie she got me for Christmas, wondering if it's socially acceptable to burst into tears in Home Bargains because I walked past her favourite packet of cinema popcorn.

And that’s the thing no one tells you: the ending doesn’t have to be dramatic for it to destroy you.

There was no betrayal. No shouting. No public scenes or thrown mugs. Just a quiet, honest conversation in her car - to near where we went for our first walk on the beach together six years ago - and the mutual, respectful decision that… it wasn’t working anymore. It was clear we loved each other, but it wasn’t working.

And then it was over.

We hugged, looked at each other with love. Still love. But knowing that something had shifted. That we'd changed. That we couldn’t quite find the “why,” but we could feel it in every awkward silence, every misfired joke, every moment we reached for each other and missed.

She was brave enough to say it out loud. And I’m proud of her for that. Genuinely proud.

But bloody hell.


I miss her.


I miss her so much.

Grief Isn’t Always a Funeral

Here’s what no one prepares you for when a long relationship ends:

It’s grief.


Full-on, stomach-twisting, lump-in-throat, can’t-breathe-properly grief.

Except there’s no funeral. No wake. No Spotify playlist of “her favourite songs” to sob through while people bring you sandwiches. No official goodbye.

Just... silence.

No good morning texts.
No “what are you having for tea?” messages.
No "saw this and thought of you."
No one asking how your day’s been because they actually want to know.
Just a silence so loud it makes your ears ring.

The Lies I Tell Myself

I’m too old.


I’ll never meet anyone again.


I have nothing to offer.


She’ll be happier without me.


She deserves better.

And maybe those are all true (They’re probably not, but my brain’s not exactly being helpful right now), but it doesn’t really matter, because even if I know those are probably lies... they still feel like truth at 2am.

They hit you in weird ways.
 The thought of the places you won't go because that was 'your thing'. Cinema nights, shopping trips (even if it was The Beauty Outlet), ordering a chinese... like planning a family day out and realise you can’t go to that one place, because it was your place. That one fantastic food market you went to. The one with the obscure cocktails and the gyozas she loved. Can’t go there anymore. That’s her place now. Hers and the ghost of the you that was still a couple.

“Be a Man About It”

I hate that phrase. It translates roughly to 
“Don’t feel this. Push it down. Pretend you’re fine.”

But I’m not fine.
 And if you’ve ever been through something like this, you probably weren’t either. Right now, I don’t want to meet anyone ever again. I want to her to be happy. I want her to be ok, I’m just sitting here… not ok.

And that’s OK.
 In fact, it’s necessary. You don’t get over six years in a couple of days.
 You don’t unlove someone because you had a sensible chat in a car.

So cry. Shout. Mope. 
Talk to your friends. Talk to your therapist. Talk to your cat, your dog, your goldfish. 
Talk to the nice woman at the petrol station who doesn’t know why you’re suddenly over-explaining why you’ve not got a Clubcard because you always gave your points to her.

Just talk.

What I’m Proud Of

I’m proud of what we were. 
Proud of how we handled it. 
Proud of our six years, the laughs, the travels, the quiet nights in, the everything. When I speak of her - of us - I'll speak with pride, and love, and I hope that it'll all get easier.

She’s an incredible person.
 And I’ll always be grateful I got to love her. Even if it ended.