The goodbye that broke me wasn’t just a goodbye, it was an amputation. My world, once vibrant and full, bled out into a desolate grey landscape. It was sudden. A car accident, just a flash, and then he was gone. My anchor. My everything. I remember the call, the tremor in the voice on the other end, the way my knees buckled. I remember the funeral, a blur of kind faces and empty platitudes. People saying he was in a better place. I just wanted him back here, in this place, with me.
For months, I existed. That’s all. Showering felt like an Olympic effort. Eating was a chore. Sleep offered no escape, only dreams of a life that was ripped away. I walked through our home, a mausoleum of memories, his scent still clinging to his side of the bed, his favorite mug by the sink. Every object was a sharp shard of glass, cutting deeper with each glance. Friends tried to help. Family called. I nodded, I smiled weakly, I made hollow promises to “get better.” But how do you get better from losing half your soul?
Bhad Bhabie, now 22
One rainy Tuesday, nearly a year later, I decided it was time. Time to sort through his office. The one room I’d avoided like a plague. His scent was strongest there, mingled with the familiar smell of old books and coffee. Every drawer held a story, every file a piece of his brilliant mind. It was agonizing, but also, in a strange, masochistic way, a comfort. A final, desperate touch. Maybe I’d find a forgotten note, a silly doodle, a last piece of him.
I pulled out a box from the very back of a bottom cabinet, tucked away behind old tax returns. It wasn’t a document box. It was a dark wooden chest, something I’d never seen before. It felt heavy. Locked. My heart hammered. A sudden burst of hope surged through me. A secret treasure? A love letter meant for me, to be found after his death? Something to prove his enduring love, his foresight, his care even beyond the grave. I spent an hour searching for a key, tearing apart desk drawers and rummaging through old jewelry boxes. Nothing.
A nurse standing in a break room | Source: Midjourney
Finally, out of sheer desperation, I found a loose piece of an old coat hanger and started to pick the lock. It was surprisingly easy. The latch clicked. My breath hitched. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a stack of journals. Not his work journals, but personal, leather-bound books. My hands trembled as I lifted the top one. It was dated from five years ago – just a few months after we’d met. My heart fluttered with a nervous excitement. This was it. His inner world, waiting for me.
I opened the first journal. The handwriting was unmistakably his, neat and precise. The early entries were sweet, full of observations about our budding relationship, about me. My smile was genuine for the first time in months. He wrote about how beautiful he found me, how smart, how much he cherished our time together. Then, as I flipped through the pages, the tone began to shift. Subtly at first. Small doubts. Criticisms. I brushed them off, thinking everyone has bad days, moments of frustration.
A smiling little girl | Source: Midjourney
But the shift became more pronounced, more disturbing. Entries that had once glowed with affection became cold, analytical. He started writing about “the plan.” Pages detailed meticulous financial arrangements, a new bank account, a separate email address. He spoke of “the need for a clean break,” “a fresh start.” My blood ran cold. What was he talking about? My mind raced, trying to find an innocent explanation. A secret project? A surprise vacation?
Then I read an entry, dated just six months before his death: “She’s growing suspicious. Her intuition is sharper than I anticipated. I need to expedite my departure.” My vision blurred. DEPARTURE? He was planning to leave me? The grief that had consumed me morphed into a sickening, icy dread. He was going to abandon me. But why? For whom?
I devoured the remaining journals, each word a venomous bite. He wasn’t just planning to leave. He was meticulously planning a new life. A completely separate life. He had purchased a small apartment in a city hours away, furnished it. He had a new job lined up. He had even started using a different name. He was creating an entirely new identity. All while I was still sleeping beside him, planning our future, believing in our love.
A couple holding hands in a car | Source: Pexels
Then, buried in the final journal, a single photograph fell out. It wasn’t of me. It was of him, smiling, holding hands with a woman I didn’t recognize. Her arm was around a small child, a girl with his eyes. Underneath the photo, a brief, chilling entry: “The new family is ready. Just need to finalize the divorce from my old life, and then we’re free.”
MY OLD LIFE. I was his old life. He had another family. Not just an affair, not just a plan to leave, but a complete, parallel existence. A wife. A child. All of it happening while he was with me, building what I thought was our future. The car accident didn’t just take him from me; it took away his chance to abandon me and vanish into this new life. His death wasn’t just a loss; it was a cruel, twisted reprieve from a betrayal so profound it would have shattered me even more completely.
A woman holding a pregnancy test kit | Source: Pexels
The goodbye that broke me was a lie. My world hadn’t just gone grey. IT HAD NEVER BEEN REAL. My grief wasn’t for a loving partner, but for a ghost, a meticulously crafted illusion. I collapsed onto the floor, the journals scattered around me, the photograph clutched in my trembling hand. He didn’t die. He just revealed the truth about who he truly was: a monster. And now, the true goodbye, the real heartbreak, had just begun.
