A marriage that had quietly ended long before it was over. A version of myself I'd built carefully, competently, and completely — that stopped fitting almost overnight. I did what most of us do. I kept going. I held it together. I told myself I was fine until the word stopped meaning anything.
What broke me open wasn't a single moment. It was a slow accumulation of all the things I hadn't let myself feel. Grief I'd filed away. Anger I'd made polite. A longing I couldn't name because naming it would have required changing everything.