Apparently, Even Endings Have Office Hours

Today was supposed to be simple.

Wake up. Eat something. Go outside.  Handle a few things.

Perhaps pretend I am a functional adult with a five-year plan.

Adorable.

Instead, I spent most of the day inside my house, staring at my life like it was a badly written document waiting for someone to approve the final version.

Apparently, endings come with paperwork.

Who knew?  There are conversations about documents. Questions about timing.  

People asking why there is a need to hurry. 

People asking what I actually want. And honestly?

For once, I had a very simple answer. I just want to know. That's it.

I want to know what happens next.

Not because I'm desperate to destroy anything.

Not because I'm trying to run toward an ending.

Not because I'm secretly hoping someone will change their mind.

I just don't want to stand in the middle of a burning building asking whether I'm allowed to look at the evacuation map.

Apparently, even that requires a meeting. 😂

There is something strangely surreal about watching your life become administrative.

Something that once involved love, promises, plans, distance, sacrifice, arguments, forgiveness, laughter, and years of memories...

eventually becomes:  What documents do you have?  How much does it cost?

Who needs to sign what?  When can we start?

Romance really does have a spectacularly depressing customer-service department.

Please press 1 for heartbreak.

Press 2 for financial consequences.

Press 3 if you would like to speak to someone who has absolutely no idea what happened.

Please hold. Your emotional suffering is very important to us. 😂 

And somewhere in all of this, I realized something.

I'm not trying to force anything anymore. I'm not asking anyone to stay.

I'm not asking anyone to choose me.

I'm not standing at a locked door explaining why I deserve to be let back inside.

If someone wants to leave— the door works both ways.

Go. I will survive the draft. I will survive the silence. I will survive the paperwork. 

I will survive the part where people suddenly start speaking about years of your life like they're closing a bank account.

I will even survive the deeply insulting administrative vocabulary of heartbreak.

Case. Process. Documentation. Support. Procedure.

As if four years of marriage can be reduced to a folder.

Maybe that's what growing up looks like.

You stop asking, “How do I make this person choose me?”

And start asking, “What do I need to do to protect myself now?”

Different question. Different woman. Same face.

Much less available for nonsense. And maybe that's the part nobody notices.

The change isn't dramatic. I'm not suddenly fearless.

I'm not walking around in slow motion with the wind blowing through my hair while a motivational soundtrack plays behind me.

I'm still tired. Still confused. 

Still occasionally staring at the ceiling wondering what the fuck happened to my life.

But something inside me has shifted.

I'm no longer trying to save something that doesn't want to be saved.

I'm trying to understand how to save me. And apparently that begins with asking questions.

Not begging. Not chasing.

Not explaining myself until my voice disappears.

Just: What happens next?

Tell me. I'll listen. I'll decide.

And if the answer is that this chapter really is ending...

Fine. I didn't choose the ending.

But I can still choose what kind of woman walks out of it.  Maybe that's the real plot twist.

Not getting him back. Not finding someone else. Not proving anyone wrong.

Just becoming inconveniently difficult to abandon.

Because I've finally learned something rather expensive:

I can love someone deeply without handing them the keys to my entire existence.

And if that's the lesson this particular disaster was sent to teach me...

Well. Congratulations. Lesson received.

Please don't send me the invoice. I've already paid enough.