18. When Grief Doesn’t Have Closure

It’s been three weeks since C broke up with me.

Three. Whole. Weeks.

Twenty-one days of trying to breathe around a pain that somehow still surprises me with its sharpness.
And honestly? I feel gross inside every time I think about it.
Not “oops I forgot to shower” gross — more like “something cracked inside me and I don’t know how to mop it up” gross.

Even as I write this, I can feel the tears prickle at the edge of my eyes, just sitting there, waiting for permission.

Some days, I’m fine. Like… we’re doing it, fam. We’re moving forward. Look at me, thriving.
Other days? I want to curl up in a corner and just evaporate. No poetic metaphor. Just… cease.
And some days — the worst days — I get mad.
I get so mad.

Mad that C could pour so much of his time and soul into his music, his calling, his passion...
But not into me.
Not into us.

And before you come at me with “well maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” please know I’ve already tried to console myself with that line.
It doesn’t work.
Not when someone tells you that you’re wonderful, that you’re virtuous, that you’re someone they admire deeply… And then still chooses to walk away.

Like, sorry, but if I’m so great, why am I not enough for you to stay?

And that’s the thing I keep spinning around in my brain like a record that skips.
If he thought I was all those things… why did he leave?

I know, I know. Relationships are complicated. Timing. Mental health. Calling. All that jazz.
But try telling that to the shattered pieces of my heart that I keep finding in unexpected places — in the corner of my car seat, in the stupid love songs on my playlist, in the back row of church, in my freaking dreams.

It feels so cruel sometimes. Like he got to walk away — clean, whole, inspired.And I got left behind — grieving, confused, holding this burning bag of “what now?”

And yeah, I know God’s in it. Somewhere.
I know He’s near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18), and I cling to that truth like a lifeline some nights.
But I still want to scream into my pillow. I still want to ask God why He let me fall so hard just to hit pavement.

My bible study group is coming to help me move-in to my new apartment next week. Guess who is also coming?! C. I wish he were helping me move into this new apartment as my boyfriend, and not as some gentle echo of what he used to be. I wish, when everyone else drives away, he’d stay behind. That he’d hold me as I exhale the weight of change —
the kind that shakes more than furniture, the kind that shifts the ground beneath your soul.

I want him there, not just to carry boxes, but to carry space with me. To sit in the quiet of these unfamiliar walls and remind me that I’m not alone in all this becoming. I want him to be who he was — my person.

But that’s no longer written in the script of us.

Still, my body remembers. It aches to text him. To press myself into the safety of his arms. To feel his warmth seep into mine, to breathe in the scent of him like a balm, to thread my fingers through his hair the way I used to when the world felt safe. I want all of these things. Desperately. But none of them belong to me anymore.

Sometimes, I catch myself fantasizing about the version of this story that never happened. In that version, he stays.

He looks me in the eyes and says, “I know this is scary. I know this is hard. But you’re worth the risk.” He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t retreat into silence or ambiguity. He shows up, fully, bravely, and chooses to work through the chaos with me. To fight for us.

In that version, I don’t have to wonder if I was asking for too much. Or if I was just too much, period.

But that version never happened. And I can’t live in it. I have to live here — in the messy, unglamorous reality of grief and growth.

Which, by the way, sometimes looks like me crying in traffic. Or listening to worship music I barely believe in right now, just in case God is still listening to me. And maybe He is. Maybe that’s the part I’m slowly learning — that God doesn’t wait for me to get it together before He sits with me in the ruins. Maybe He’s not afraid of my anger or my doubt. Maybe He’s just… here. Patient. Still. Steady.

I’m not healed. But the fact that I can write this — that I can name my pain without sugarcoating it — feels like a start.

Maybe healing doesn’t always feel like victory. Maybe sometimes it just feels like being honest. Maybe that’s holy, too.

The hardest part, though? It’s not even the fact that he left. It’s the not knowing if he’ll ever come back. That limbo-space is excruciating. Because I know how to grieve when something dies, but what do you do when something just… pauses? When it lingers in the doorway with no clear goodbye, and no promise of return?

I find myself replaying our moments, mining them for hidden meaning. Did that look mean something? Was that hug longer than usual? Did he almost say something more?

It's exhausting. Because even as I try to move forward, there's a part of me constantly glancing over my shoulder, hoping I'll see him running toward me, finally realizing he made a mistake. Finally ready to stay.

I want that so badly, it makes my bones ache. I want him to come back to me. Desperately. Not because I can’t live without him — I know I can. But because something about our connection felt rare. And real. And unfinished.

And yes, I know — if he were meant to stay, he would have. I’ve heard all the quotes. I’ve given that same advice to other people. But advice sounds different when it’s your own heart on the line.

So here I am — caught in the tension. Of wanting. Of waiting. Of not knowing.

And I keep bringing that tension to God — over and over again — like a child dragging a broken toy to her Father saying, "Can You fix this? Please? Can You bring it back?"

I don’t know what God will do. I don’t know if this story will include a return. That unknown scares me to death, and brings tears to my eyes like nobody’s business. But I do know He’s with me in the ache.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

- Cheesecake