Happy Anniversary
The damn photo memories. Your phone sends you highlights and reminders of faces and moments you captured within the last year. Recently, there was a picture of an engagement ring you tried on and loved about a year ago. He liked that you looked at rings and wanted you to send him photos of designs that you liked. The two of you both enjoyed getting swept up in the daydream. You remember this ring. Classic, elegant, timeless. You sent the photo to him and to your best friend. You know, just in case.
It’s stunning! It’s so you! Your best friend said with excitement.
Oh, how I miss being someone you loved.
The missing will end. This part won't last forever. And other things you force yourself to hold onto, a truth that currently feels like a lie. Until then, you’re in the eye of the storm. You’ve grown accustomed to the familiar ache that resides at the center of your chest; it’s transformed into a dull pain that pulsates as you go about your day. You’ve resigned to accepting this as your new normal, prepared for each wave of emotion as it comes.
Maybe I won't ever lose the bruises that you left behind.
The grief hits you, sudden and overwhelming, disrupting an otherwise ordinary Saturday. The weather is beautiful and warm for Southern California in January—you'd started the day content with a long walk on the beach and a run, feeling strong in your marathon training. But now, in the stillness of your afternoon, the grief blows in with the fresh ocean air that flows through open windows, unexpectedly taking your breath away and filling your lungs with every inhale.
At first, you resist without success. You breathe a little heavier, try to slow down, and even count your breaths. You lose ground quickly. The tears come anyway, unstoppable. Your body folds over your knees, tissues pressed to your eyes, shoulders shaking. A muffled yet audible whimper releases from your lips. A whimper and then a cry, the pain spilling out. Until a sequence of cries is too much to hold in. Your dog sits nearby, confused at the state you’re in. The attempt to hold it in fails. Your resistance transformed into release.
The silent ache that accompanies you daily instantly becomes unbearable pain, throbbing with intensity. What is usually managed or ignored quickly overwhelmed you, dominating everything in that moment—a clear shift from background pain to forefront agony.
Where did this come from? Why can’t I make it stop?
Your mind begins to race. I miss him. I … I… I miss you so fucking much! You say silently to yourself, choppy and between whimpers and cries.
Your mind is used to playing scattered memories of him, but right now, it feels different—vivid, sharp, like watching your last shared moments in IMAX. You see every detail in 3D and Technicolor; the experience and emotions that follow are lucid and lifelike. This abrupt emotional shift is painful, and yet the only way you still feel close to him, even though you long for a different narrative and a different ending. You’d much rather be writing a love story. I hate that we ended this way. I hate that we ended…
The morning of your last day together was sweet and ordinary. He brought you coffee and breakfast as you started your workday. During a virtual meeting, you muted yourself to hug and thank him, assuring him you’d stay one more night and see him after work. He lit up, hugged, and kissed you more. He was gentle and tender, his long arms wrapping around you one more time. Lately, this memory is seared in your mind, reappearing when you revisit that day. Remembering and longing for his hugs sends a surge of pain and longing deep in your chest.
Everything looks different in the light of day versus the dark of night. Things can change in the shadows.
The way that day ended is starkly different from how it began. Black and white. Night and day. When you brought up your pain at dinner, he heard criticism. When you brought up that it hurt you when he was on his phone a lot during this time you had together, he heard “you’re not perfect.” He rejected your pain and your truth, and with it, he rejected you. In an instant, instead of taking accountability, you were met with his defensiveness, blame-shifting, and gaslighting. It became about attending to his rage and calming him down, while your pain went ignored. And in the silence where your pain was pushed away, the pain grew, as it had been for several months before.
Amid all this, the silence where your pain dwelled, there were moments where doubt crept in. A part of you wondered if you had misinterpreted everything, if maybe his response wasn't just defensive but a reflection of his own fear of inadequacy or fear of rejection. You tried to manage it and adjust yourself around his wounds, carrying more alongside your own ignored wounds. You remember his moments of kindness, his hugs, his warmth, the times he held you. These memories felt like hope—hope that there “could be” a change, that whatever rift you two were in wasn't permanent. But then the pattern would re-emerge, like waves crashing against the certainty of your heartache. Truth slapping you into reality. These moments of doubt and hope made his rejection feel even sharper, as if each kind memory was a temporary, fleeting oasis in a vast emotional desert. A mirage that would never be reached.
Your pain was never about wanting perfection. Your pain was wanting accountability and change, coupled with the thousand “I’m sorrys” you heard. I’ll be different. I know I need to be different and better for you and for the boys. I don't know how to explain it, but things are different this time.
His words echo in your mind, bouncing off canyon walls, then fall silent—nowhere left to land.
Your pain became the problem. Then the weapon. Then the threat.
I cried out of the blue today. Uncontrollably. Sobbing. And it’s wild that this happened today because I noticed today would have been an anniversary for us.
When you catch your breath again, you notice the date. Though not a milestone anniversary, it was the month-marker that the two of you acknowledged. Especially him. He always remembered, every month, when the date arrived. Happy anniversary. A message he never failed to send or say. You’d smile, pause, take it in: happy anniversary. I love you.
You survived this day before. Why is today different? Why did your inner alarm go off?
Maybe it’s because you dared to watch something with a hint of romance. These days, you avoid anything that resembles a love story. If your friends suggest a show or movie about love, you quickly reject it. I can’t handle that right now. It doesn't matter the cause. Grief is not linear, you remind yourself.
Your meltdown lasted a few minutes; you’re not sure exactly how long you were down. Eventually, thankfully, you muster the strength to stand up, slowly stop crying, and regroup yourself. Your breathing normalizes. You put on your shoes, grab your keys, and take your dog out for a walk.
