It’s been exactly 16 hours and 24 minutes since my boyfriend broke up with me.
Sorry, ex boyfriend.
It’s been exactly eight months and one day since we met, and we’ve been in a relationship ever since. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been worth it. At least for me.
Long distance from the beginning has meant seeing each other sporadically and going as much as two months at a time without a visit.
Yet, we made it work. We have talked every day since we met without fail. Tomorrow, I’m predicting, will be the first without any communication.
I didn’t realise he was unhappy until I received a text at 5:37am two days ago. It was the longest message he had every written (digital communication is not his strong point) and half way through, when he began to list all the reasons I was unhappy, I knew something was wrong.
The end par began with “We need to go out separate ways for the moment”. By this point I was shaking.
Sure we’d had a fight the night before over something stupid but to send me a text in the middle of the night for me to wake up to at 7:30am was so out of character. I immediately rang him. His phone was off.
Hours later he made contact, again via text asking me to think about what he’d said and that we’d talk about it the following night.
I stayed surprisingly calm until I saw his face on FaceTime and instantly knew it was over.
The next two hours consisted of him telling me for the first time that he was unhappy, that he could not commit to a long-distance relationship any longer, along with all the reasons I had made him miserable.
There was denial, anger, tears, bargaining and acceptance. I went through the five stages of grief in a singular conversation.
By the time we hung up, he was crying, I was crying and I didn’t know what to do.
The only thing I wanted was to hug him. Being in a different country made this hard.
I called the only person who was online at the time – my 21-year-old brother.
The poor soul had to pick up the phone to his older sister sobbing and asking for help – but his advice and love made me calm down and breathe.
I crawled into my flatmates bed with her who instinctively knew what had happened and went to sleep, emotionally drained.
Waking up at 6am, I was hit with the sickness of what had happened just hours earlier.
I got out of the house and went for a walk, trying to collect my thoughts.
On the way back, I called my mum. As soon as I heard her voice I broke down, what was I going to do?
I was in love with this gorgeous, wonderful, funny, kind, caring man who didn’t love me back.
The rest of the day has been a blur, but surprisingly little tears have been shed since this morning, no doubt I am still in denial. The only time I get choked up is at the thought of never seeing him again.
For the past eight months he has been my best friend, my confidant, my person, my love, my everything.
I’m going to miss how he feels when we cuddle, how we fit so perfectly together. The first smile on his face when I walk through the airport doors, when he teases me mercilessly for all the ridiculous things I do. I’m going to miss his accent, his voice, the way he says my name, the way he always gives me clarity and peace of mind. I’m going to miss his ambition, his drive, how he inspires me to be better.
I’m going to miss how his hair feels when I’m stroking it, how it feels when he puts his arm around me while we watch a movie, giving me a kiss on the forehead. I miss his touch, the way he looks at me when he’s just woken up like I’m the most beautiful person in the world.
I love him so much. I don’t know what I’m going to do.