We’re supposed to just forget about that person we had a life with? I think about my ex a lot. We’re supposed to just move on, fill the void with novelty. The concept is wild to me. The more I try to forget the more she’s magnified in my mind; it’s this sort of nebulous notion of what we had and who she was; we knew everything about each other, and now we know nothing.

I don’t know what she’s doing in the world. I wonder what that woman whom I loved is up to. But I’m not allowed to ask, ‘cause I have to let her forget, too.

It’s the hardest thing in life. All these pictures on my phone. They make me smile; how strange, to try and forget our past. I’m not trying to forget. It just hurts to remember.

Feeling so much love for a person, but knowing you’re not meant to be together. It’s okay to feel these things. I just hope she’s well.

We weren’t meant to be together; but I miss her. What is there to do about it? Nothing. It’s shitty, but there’s nothing to do. I thought that maybe there was. Since it ended with no ill-will, I thought that maybe we could still be friends and talk every once in a while—see each other every once in a double-while.

But I don’t think that’s the play.

On the surface everything’s okay; time is passing, we’re good! Naw. I don’t know about her, but man, I still hurt from time to time.

It’s incredibly selfish to reach out every time we want to hear that person’s voice, to text just because we’re lonely; on the surface a text just seems friendly, but there’s something deeper going on.

It’s an act of control to keep that person tethered, and it’s fucked.

You might feel regret, so you try to get them back without having done any sort of work on yourself to change. What, then, will be different if you were back together? The novelty would quickly fade, and you’d be right back where you started.

Yet we reach out and hold them within arm’s reach because we can’t handle the fact that it is over. Guys, don’t fucking do this.

We’re told to just move on. I don’t think it’s that easy.

It’s okay to feel. Fuck ya it is. Feel it all, just don’t include your ex in your bullshit. You gotta heal on your own, brother. That’s what friends are for.

Memories of seeing their name send a shiver down our spine, and it’s the positive memories we remember, those of them lying there in bed with their eyes closed, an ephemeral kiss in the hallway, a smile. Memories of Saturday mornings, long drives with the windows down, late nights in shadowy places.

But that’s not the entire story. We have to trust ourselves, knowing that what we knew when things ended was true to us; we have to trust that we made the best decision, and if we acted on our intuition, we must stick by it.

Fuck, it still hurts though. And I wonder—if it ended badly, would that make it easier to forget now? Because maybe I’d push myself to move on. But it didn’t end badly. It ended with two people who loved each other knowing they weren’t right for each other. So now I just remember the good. The silly, the fun. I have to remind myself why it didn’t work.

Of course, it wouldn’t have been better if things had ended badly. The memories and emotions that I’m feeling now of missing this person—wondering what they’re up to, wishing I could just say hello, check in, without all of this implicit meaning attached—that would be replaced with negative emotions, hatred, regret, self pity. And that’s not good for anyone.

In the end, when shit gets tough, that’s when our true colors shine, and hers and mine both shone exactly the way they did since the beginning, bright and hot with respect and love. We don’t truly know somebody until there’s nothing left to lose. And I’m in awe of the fact that at that point and from then on, we’ve continued to respect one another while wanting nothing but the best.

There’s no ill will, never was.

It’s romantic love. It’s not just family or friendship, it’s romantic love. Romantic love burns fiery red and carries with it possibility and weight, the potential to erupt into a fire or smolder down to ashes. There’s two ways that it can go. With a friendship, you can keep things tepid; with a new friend you have fun hanging out, but it doesn’t need to escalate to more if you don’t feel the urge.

With love—man, it’s a drug. You want more, more, and either this thing is gonna go the distance, or it’s gonna reduce to nothing but a memory. But you take a chance, because to feel the white hot energy of love is worth it, fully knowing that there’s the potential for pain. The more love there is, the more pain is left in its absence. It’s fucking hard.

But the pain isn’t bad if it came about purely, not from cheating or the poison of letting the relationship rot for far too long. When it isn’t numbed or stuffed down or neglected for decades, the pain becomes simply another form of love, and that’s what I’m feeling now.

Love for this person. Love for life. Gratitude that I’m able to meet such interesting, wonderful, beautiful people, and we dance the dance. I don’t see the point if we’re not here for love. Romantic adventures. It’s exciting. It’s fun. It’s beautiful. It hurts. And I long to feel it all. Experience. That’s what all of it is—experience—chapters, until one comes along that lasts until the book is closed.

We both learned so much. My life is moving forward. Yet still I feel conflicted. I feel wrong for feeling stuck in the past, like I’m supposed to have moved on, like it’s wrong to still think about this person nearly every day.

What does it take to move on? Time is all there is. The sun rising and the moon shining, life being lived. It’s okay to miss. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to feel for all the people we’ve loved, and to hope that they feel it when we think of them.