The Truth I Can’t Outrun

The Truth I Can’t Outrun

There’s a truth I’ve been avoiding, but it follows me everywhere I go. It sits with me in quiet rooms, rides with me in the car, and whispers when I try to sleep. There is so much that I still do not understand about what happened between Jeffrey and me. So much that still feels like an unfinished sentence in my soul.

I’ve never believed in remarriage. I’ve never believed in second chances when it comes to something sacred that was once whole. To me, marriage isn’t a contract; it’s a covenant. Once it’s broken, the world can keep turning, but something eternal stops inside you.

And yet, that’s only part of why I can’t stay here. Every street, every scent, every song reminds me of him — of us — of what once felt divine. It’s not just the memories; it’s the gravity. The pull. The ache of a love that refuses to die quietly.

I want to tell myself that if I saw him again, I would be stronger. That I wouldn’t collapse back into his arms or surrender myself to the illusion of “maybe again.” But that would be a lie. The truth is, as long as I am within reach, as long as I am where he can find me, a part of me will always surrender back to him.

That’s what no one seems to understand: my suffering isn’t just grief — it’s devotion without a home. It’s the part of me that still believes in what we promised before God, and the part of me that knows those vows have already turned to dust.

And the reason I’m so back and forth emotionally — the reason I can be strong one day and shattered the next — is because I am still in love with him. People often say the opposite of love is hate, but that’s not true. Hate is still an expression of love; it still cares enough to burn. The real opposite of love is apathy. That’s when you know you’re no longer in love with someone — when you can think of them and feel nothing at all. I’m nowhere near that place. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

If I’m brutally honest, when I think about what might make me happy, all I can picture is him — the restoration, the miracle, the impossible reconciliation. And that thought keeps me trapped, circling a ghost. Because living this way — waiting for a resurrection that will never come — isn’t living at all.

Still, I can’t hate myself for loving like this. I can’t shame my heart for its faithfulness. All I can do is tell the truth of it. That I am torn between the vow I made and the life I must somehow reclaim.

Maybe this is what it means to love beyond reason — to burn and still walk away, knowing that the ashes are sacred. Maybe that’s where healing begins: not in forgetting, but in finally accepting that the story ended, even if my heart didn’t.

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