On Loving Jeffrey, Still

On Loving Jeffrey, Still

I don’t know how to write about Jeffrey without my heart tightening in my chest.
It isn’t just marriage. It isn’t paperwork. It isn’t even the house or the life we built.

It’s him.
The person.
The man.
The one who made sense to me in a world that never has.

No one fits the way he fits.
No one moves in the same rhythm I do, no one locks into my soul the way he did. I miss the way he existed beside me, the way being near him made the world stop spinning for a moment. I miss the quiet things — the shared space, the shared breath, the comfort of simply knowing he was there.

Even when things were strained, even when everything was complicated, part of me was always at peace simply because it was him.

And now I’m facing this divorce — this tearing-away — and it feels wrong.
Not just emotionally, but spiritually.
In my belief, long before he ever knew me, the meaning of divorce wasn’t “you start over.”
It was “you remain single.”
It was “you hold the covenant alone.”
It was the end of the world in a very specific, sacred way.

So here I am.
I can’t take another lover.
I can’t build a new home.
I can’t soften this emptiness with someone else’s warmth.
My faith doesn’t allow it — but more than that, my heart doesn’t allow it.
I can’t imagine another person fitting into the space Jeffrey carved inside me.

And what makes it so much harder is that when I did see him… he said he loved me.
The words were there. The truth was there.
And then the actions broke me anyway.

People talk like having a job or staying busy makes things easier.
Like working, surviving, paying bills is enough.
But a job means nothing when you come home to an empty bed.
Success means nothing when you have no one to share the small victories with.
You can go to bars, festivals, gatherings — you can fill your days with noise —
but at the end of the night you still walk into a quiet house with no laughter, no warmth, no heartbeat waiting for you.

It’s not the big things I miss.
It’s the thread of connection that made life feel like it was moving forward instead of collapsing in on itself.
That thread is gone, and everything else — everything the world offers — feels thin and hollow by comparison.

I guess the truth is simple:
I loved him. I love him still. And losing him feels like losing the only person who ever understood my shape.

I’m not okay right now.
This hurts deeper than I know how to say.
But I’m here, writing this, breathing through it, trying to hold myself upright in a world that feels faded without him.

And maybe that’s what survival looks like today.

I'm sorry that I cannot pretend to be okay. The pretending only hurts worse! Everyday is nothing but pain.

The longing only grow stronger.

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