Page 162 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

At some point, time stopped feeling normal.

Mornings didn’t feel like beginnings—they felt like a burden.

Nights didn’t feel like endings—they felt like punishment.

Every day just stretched too long, too quiet, too empty.

Sometimes I would wake up and, for a second, feel okay, thinking I could get through the day. Then something small would happen: a notification that wasn’t him, a moment of silence, a memory that came crashing.

And just like that, I’d spiral again.

Work also became background noise.

Voices in my headset blurred together—customers talking, scripts repeating—but none of it stayed.

I’d catch myself staring at the screen for too long, not realizing how much time had passed.

Or sometimes I’d forget what I was supposed to say.

There were moments I muted calls just to breathe.

Moments I stared at the blinking cursor like it expected something from me that I couldn’t give.

My mind wasn’t present. It kept going back to Victor.

And when it got too loud, I’d go to the toilet, lock the door, and cry.

Not loudly but just enough to get the pain out my chest… or at least make space for it.

Then I’d wash my face, look at myself in the mirror, and go back to pretending I was okay.

But I wasn’t.

I was barely functioning… and it showed in my work.

But then day five came.

For the first time, my phone lit up and his name appeared.

My chest tightened so fast it hurt.

I opened it immediately.

I’ve been thinking about us.

I read it once… then again… slower this time.

I’m still hurt about what you did. You know I’ve had past relationships that weren’t good for me. And what you did just triggered something I didn’t expect.

Each word landed carefully. Measured. Controlled. He had taken time to make sure it sounded right.

I swallowed, my fingers already moving.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got overwhelmed.

Can we talk? I wanna see you and explain.

The typing bubble didn’t come right away.