Almost a Year

Next month marks a year since I moved into my apartment.

I moved in on my birthday—quietly, intentionally—a gift to myself. A new beginning I didn’t fully realize I needed until I stepped through the door.

I told people I left my old place because of the commute. And technically, that was true. But the real reason? I couldn’t be there anymore. Not after him.

He never lived with me, but it felt like he did. He stayed over three, sometimes four nights a week. His clothes were in my drawer. His protein shakes lined the pantry. I bought groceries just for him. We’d work out together in the building gym, then come home, shower together, and cook breakfast like it was ritual. Sometimes I washed his clothes when they ended up in my hamper. Sometimes he folded my towels like it was his home, too.

We weren’t pretending. We really believed we were building something. At least—I did. I thought we were in it for the long haul. I thought he’d never break up with me. I think he thought I’d never stop chasing him.

But what we had wasn’t sustainable. We were always climbing some emotional peak, then falling off the other side. Love doesn’t have to feel like a rollercoaster ride, but we couldn’t seem to let go—until he finally did.

Technically, I ended things first. But I came back. I begged. And he let me. The second time, he ended it. I think he expected me to come running again.

But I didn’t.

Because this time, I knew I had to be the stronger one.

I remember telling my therapist that my old apartment felt like I was trying to force things to fit in a space that was never going to work. Just like us. I hated the layout. I tried so hard to make it feel right. Rearranged everything—over and over. But nothing ever fit.

Then I moved here—and everything did.

This place had what I needed. I didn’t have to force anything. All I had to do was bring what I already had—my furniture, my memories, myself. And that was enough.

Still, I brought clutter. Emotional and literal. Stuff I packed in a rush. Remnants from a version of me that hadn’t quite let go.

But this weekend, something shifted. I cleaned. I rearranged. I finally got rid of things I’d been holding onto for no good reason. And I realized I was making space—not just in my apartment, but in my life.

I was 27 when I met him.

28 when we broke up.

29 when I moved here.

And next month, I’ll be 30 on a trip I’ve been planning for at least 2 years.

Last year on my birthday I remember going to bed in a room filled with bare walls, unopened boxes everywhere when he texted.

It was a simple message from the man I once believed I’d marry:

Hi Meli, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday :)

I hope that life is being kind to you and Luna, and that you both stay well and healthy.

(You don’t have to respond to this)

And I ignored it.

Not because it didn’t stir something. It did. But because I finally understood that missing someone isn’t the same as loving them. That real love doesn’t keep you waiting, hurting, or guessing.

That silence was my closure. My strength. My choice.

Now? I don’t think he’ll text again.

But if he does, it won’t shake me.

Because this space is mine.

This peace is mine.

And this version of me?

She doesn’t teach someone how to love her.

She doesn’t shrink.

She doesn’t chase.

And for once, I fit perfectly—

in a life I built,

not one I begged for.