I looked across the table and realized I had been lonely in the same room with him for months. Mark was scrolling on his phone, a habit that had slowly replaced our conversations. When I told him about my promotion that morning, he had merely nodded and said, "that's cool," before turning back to the TV.

"I think I’m done, Mark," I said softly.
The silence that followed felt heavy but not shocking. It was the silence of two people who had been waiting for the other to drop the anchor.

The hardest part wasn't leaving him. The hardest part was realizing that I had shrunk myself to fit into the small space he left for me, and I didn't know how to be big again.

The next six months were a blur of "firsts" I didn't want to experience.

The first weekend alone: I stared at the ceiling, the quiet of the apartment deafening.

The first birthday: I spent it with friends who tried too hard to make me laugh.

The first moment of peace: It came three months in, while painting my living room a bright, sunny yellow - a color Mark hated and would never let me get.

Then I realized I wasn't missing him. I was missing the safety of a routine. Slowly, I began to date myself. I took pottery classes. I started running again. I learned that I actually loved spicy food, something I stopped cooking because Mark had a sensitive stomach.
I was happy. I felt whole. I was convinced I would be single for a long time, and I honestly thought that was ok.

Then came October. I was at a small, crowded art gallery opening for a friend. I was standing in front of a chaotic abstract painting, sipping bad white wine, trying to decipher the meaning of a red splash in the corner.

"It looks like a tomato soup explosion, doesn't it?" a voice whispered next to me.I turned to see a man with laugh lines around his eyes and a crooked tie. This was Julian. "I was going to say 'anger representing the duality of man,'" I laughed, "But I think I like 'soup explosion' better."

We talked for two hours. We didn't talk about our exes or our jobs immediately. We talked about why diners make the best coffee, why I have a fear of geese, we talkes about our mutual obsession with old funk records.

Julian didn't look at his phone once. When I spoke, he leaned in, genuinely fascinated by my thoughts.

Two weeks later, on our third date, it started pouring rain while we were walking through the park. But instead of silence or annoyance, Julian grabbed my hand. "I know a place with the best hot chocolate, but we have to run for it!" he yelled over the thunder. We sprinted through the puddles, laughing until our sides hurt. When we finally ducked under the awning of the café, soaking wet and shivering, Julian brushed a wet strand of hair from my face. He didn't pull away. He looked at me like I was the only source of light in the storm. "You have the most incredible laugh I've ever heard," he said. In that moment, I realized I hadn't just met somebody special. I had met someone who saw me at my full size, and loved me for it. The breakup hadn't been an ending. It was just the clearing of space for the right person to walk in.

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