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My brain is still hard-wired to think about my ex. For eleven years he was my priority, and all my synapses know him intimately. The round thoughts of him have turned sharp. Love doesn’t turn to hate. It turns to disappointment, to anger, to grief, then to nothing. I’m not at the nothing stage at the moment. I dread the day I find out he is dating someone.

He must be. Or must have. But at least now ignorance is bliss.

I miss having him in my life. Coffees in the morning, cuddles in the night, someone that is there for you – holding you when shit goes down.

Our relationship for the first seven years – was ideal. Passionate, connected, adoring, fun, and then we got a mortgage. When the ‘adult’ stage of responsibility: houses, kids, mini-van started to edge towards us – it also started to pull against the joints of our relationship. First small tears and arguments, then dislocation, then limbs being pulled apart. We weren’t humpty dumpty. No-one could put us back together. We no longer fit.  

So I still long for the idealistic, youthful, ‘us’ as a couple. I long for that free me. Sometimes I refer to myself as an old lady to the other students. They bound around the campus with fresh eyes and enthusiasm – while I limp about whimpering ‘coffee!’

Maybe, that’s one of the reasons I returned to uni and study. I didn’t want to be the adult version of me: the boring, worrying about money, anxious about the future, planning, safe, me. I don’t want to be her. I also didn’t want my husband: the boring, worrying about his career, anxious about making money, success driven, right-lane driving guy that he’d become.

We ended our relationship for many, many reasons. And I know it was the right decision, though sometimes I regret it. I wonder if we made the right decision. I long for him, yearn for him to come knocking at the door and lock his arms around me, whisper that he loves me.

Even now, the loss of him brings tears. I miss him. I miss us. Trying to move on, makes me think about him more. Makes his absence more real.

And it’s okay. The nineteen year old me is still in love with the twenty year old him. But the thirty year old is ready for someone new, something different.

It’s time to move on!