Good Luck

I told myself I was going to hold it together. And I did.

Which, frankly, deserves a small certificate. Maybe a medal.

At the very least, a complimentary pastry.

Because since the end of August, I had been dreading the moment I would finally see him again. I had mentally prepared for every possible emotional disaster.

Crying. Anger. Panic. Old memories crawling out of their graves.

Maybe even the humiliating possibility of my heart doing something stupid.

Apparently, my brain had been producing a full-budget psychological thriller while reality had prepared a very boring administrative appointment.

He arrived. I looked at him. And…

Nothing. No dramatic soundtrack. No trembling hands. 

No romantic flashback montage. No Oh God, I still love him.

Just: Oh. You're here.

After all those sleepless nights. All that anticipation.

All that emotional preparation. Oh. You're here.

Honestly, reality needs better writers. The first conversation was practical.

Money. The card. Then the iqama. I handed it over.

And suddenly we were two people conducting what felt suspiciously like a government transaction instead of two people who had once built a life around each other.

Where's the card? Where's the iqama? Anything else?

Please take your belongings and have a nice day.

Thank you for choosing Marriage™. We appreciate your business. 😂

I wasn't expecting a grand romantic moment. Let's be serious. 

Nobody needed to resurrect a dead romance in a hotel lobby before breakfast.

I wasn't expecting an apology.  I wasn't expecting “I made a terrible mistake.”

I wasn't expecting him to suddenly discover a hidden reservoir of feelings and deliver a monologue worthy of an Oscar.

I just expected something human.

A simple: “How have you been?”

Maybe: “How's life?”

Maybe even: “What have you been doing?”

Small talk. The basic human software. Apparently, that feature wasn't installed.

And then he left with:“Good luck with everything.”

Four words. That's all.

And somehow those four words landed harder than anything else.

Because suddenly, I wasn't thinking about whether I still loved him.

I wasn't. I was thinking about the years. The actual years. 

There were two years of long-distance relationship before we got married.

Then we had our religious marriage on 13 July 2022.

This July marked almost four years since that marriage.

The government officially recognized the marriage later, in January 2024.

Different dates on different pieces of paper, perhaps.

But to me, those years were still years of loving someone, waiting for someone, building around someone, believing in something.

And now?  Apparently they can all be compressed into: Estranged wife.

The wife who exists on paper. The wife he doesn't want to keep.

That's a strange thing to swallow. Not because I want the marriage back.

But because I never imagined that something could occupy such a huge portion of your life and eventually become so administratively insignificant.

Two years of LDR. Almost four years of marriage.

And the closing line is: Good luck with everything.

What an impressively efficient way to summarize a relationship.

Thanks. You too. May your future be prosperous.

Please don't forget to complete our customer satisfaction survey. 😂

I held it together while he was standing in front of me. And I'm glad I did.

Because I didn't want my tears to become another burden placed on the table.

I didn't want him thinking I was trying to guilt-trip him.

I didn't want to ask: “Don't you want to know how I've been?”

I wasn't going to beg someone to be curious about my life.

So I stayed composed. Answered what needed answering.

Handed over what he needed.  

And said nothing about the things I secretly thought he might say.

Then he left. And I got into the cab. That's when the tears came.

Apparently my nervous system had excellent timing.

He's gone? Great. Release the entire emotional warehouse. 😂

And I cried. Not because I suddenly wanted him back.

Not because I realized I was still desperately in love.

I cried because sometimes you can be completely done with a person and still grieve what their absence says about the years you shared.

That's a different kind of grief. 

You aren't mourning the relationship you have. 

You're mourning the meaning you thought it had.

And perhaps that's what hurt most this morning. I didn't need him to love me.

I just wanted him to remember that I am a human being who shared a significant part of his life.

Apparently even a little “How are you?” was too luxurious.

Premium feature. Not included in the current subscription. 😂

And that's the part I have to accept. Not that I am somehow undeserving of kindness.

But that kindness is something he chose not to offer me today.

Those are two very different things. 

His behavior doesn't get to become my measurement of my worth.

I can be hurt by it without turning the hurt inward.

I can look at the years and say: Yes. They mattered to me.

Even if they no longer seem to matter to him in the same way.

I don't have to rewrite my own history just because someone else has moved on from it.

I don't have to pretend it was meaningless because the ending is cold.

And I don't have to chase warmth from someone who isn't offering it.

I've spent enough time standing at that door. I'm not knocking anymore. 

So here I am. In a cab.  Crying like my tear ducts have suddenly discovered overtime pay.

Heading to meet my friend. Going for coffee. Getting pastries.

Because apparently after surviving an emotionally catastrophic morning, my reward is carbohydrates.

Fine. I'll take the croissant. At least the croissant has layers. Unlike some people. 😂

Maybe this isn't closure.  

Maybe it's not some beautiful healing moment where everything suddenly makes sense.

Maybe it's simply one of those ugly, ordinary moments when reality finally stops negotiating with your imagination.

You see the person. You hear the goodbye. You feel the absence.

And something inside you quietly says: Okay. I understand now.

Not everything needs another conversation. 

Not every ending gets the dignity of a proper ending.

Sometimes the chapter just stops. Sometimes the final sentence is painfully inadequate.

Sometimes “Good luck with everything” is all you get after years of hoping there would be more.

And yes, that stings. It fucking stings.

But I'm not going to spend the rest of my life standing in that sting.

I have a life to rebuild.

A life that doesn't need to be validated by whether someone from my past asks about it.

So, good luck with everything? Yeah. 

Good luck to me, too. Because I'm going to need it.

I'm starting over with whatever is left.

And maybe that's not such a terrible thing.

Because whatever is left is still mine.

My time. My life. My choices. My future.

And no one gets to make me feel like an estranged wife forever.

That's just a status. Not an identity  So today, I'm going to cry. 

Then I'm going to drink my coffee. Eat my pastry. Sit with my friend.

And eventually, I'm going home. Not because everything is okay.

Because I'm done letting one person's silence decide how the rest of my life sounds.

The meeting I spent weeks dreading is over.

And somehow the biggest surprise wasn't seeing him.

It was realizing that I survived the moment without needing anything from him. Except the bank card.  And apparently an unreasonable amount of emotional damage.😂

Well. At least the cab is taking me somewhere.

That's more than I can say for some chapters of my life.

Coffee first. Rebuilding later. I've got pastries to attend to.