I waited and waited, and finally, the day came. Brimming with excitement and anticipation, I boarded a plane and flew over 1,200 miles.
Everything seemed to go wonderfully until the third day of my visit. I remember it clearly, how she looked at me with those caring eyes—irises the color of melted caramel—and told me something wasn’t right. She couldn’t explain it, but she didn’t feel the same way anymore.
Blindsided. I could hardly fathom the truth—that our gleaming vision had been fool’s gold, our immaculate castle a house of cards.
Perhaps I overlooked something obvious, some subtle-yet-pronounced signal. I don’t know. To this day, I’m still not entirely sure why she ended it.
What I do know, though, is how it felt. I had invested so much of myself into ideas of a future with her that it was like a piece of my identity had been amputated. The sunlit future I’d treasured had been blacked out before my eyes in a proverbial nuclear holocaust.