Shattered Reality

When a relationship ends,
it’s not my heart that breaks—
it’s my mind.
My reality shatters,
and every memory rushes in at once,
a flood I can’t escape.
I can’t breathe.
Boom.
We’re leaving the bar,
still laughing about my cartwheel disaster—
too much to drink, too much joy to care.
You grab my hand,
tell me you love my wild spirit,
and we kiss.
That will never happen again.
I will never feel the warmth of your lips,
the safety of your smile,
the silent nod that says,
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
My reality is broken.
The routine, the comfort,
the life we built—
gone.
My brain scrambles to erase you,
to figure out how to survive
without us.
Love is confusing.
Maybe it’s a little of both—
my heart sinking like a ship in a storm,
no anchor to hold it,
so my mind can focus on the ache in my chest,
the physical pain easier to bear
than the truth:
We will never be whole again.
Two halves, once intertwined,
now forced to exist as fragments.
But even in the shattering,
there’s a strange kind of beauty.
The memories, though painful,
are proof that we were real.
And maybe, just maybe,
this broken reality
will one day heal,
not into what it was,
but into something new—
a mosaic of survival,
a testament to love,
and the strength it takes
to let go.