I’m 38, and I just had my first breakup. I keep expecting to cry. Instead, I have a little nausea, chills, and the strange feeling that there are more emotions in me than I can get out.
We’d been dating for a little over three months. He’s 35. Two weeks ago, we had the conversation that made us officially a couple, so I thought we were on the same wavelength. I had barely settled into being able to call this a relationship when it ended.
He was respectful about it. I’m grateful for that, even now. We talked about possibly chatting as friends in a few weeks, although I can’t tell whether that was something we might actually do or a gentle way to finish a painful conversation.
This was my first relationship. I’m new to dating, and I was falling for him. I’d just given myself permission to start talking about him to my family and coworkers. That part makes me feel a little humiliated, even though all I did was tell people about someone I liked.
Three months can sound brief when you say it out loud. It was still enough time for me to become invested, and that conversation two weeks ago had given me a reason to think he was getting there too.
Instead of sleeping, I replayed the relationship. Once I started, certain details were difficult to miss. I initiated all our text conversations. I made all the plans. He didn’t really ask how I was doing or try to ask the deeper questions that would have helped him know me.
Those things look clear now, with the ending already known. At the time, I thought we were building something together. It hurts to go back through those same months and see how much of the movement came from me.
Maybe that will be useful to recognize next time. Right now, I’m still awake, thinking about a relationship I had only just started telling people about. My stomach feels off. I’m cold. The tears still haven’t come.
