Eggshells

by Parm K.C.

when I fell out of love with him, he fell off the pedestal and the crown fell off his head. it turns out he was very ordinary.

in order to let go of him, I had to let go of the delusion. he was never my true love. he was never my soulmate. he was just another man.

I thought I’d never love again and for a while, that solitude was so desperately needed. but time has proven me wrong – I do have the ability to love again.

over him does not need to mean you have moved on to another. no, you do not have to get under someone to get over someone else. over him can be you going to farmers’ markets wandering from stall to stall, sipping overpriced coffee, soaking up your own company, smiling and meaning it.

over him can be friday nights in with your closest friends – the one’s whose ears you bent and shoulders you leaned on when pain almost swallowed you whole. over him is you embracing a new life, relying on yourself, being open to (but not starving for) new love, and nurturing your first love – you.

today I bought myself flowers. I didn’t wait for anyone else to. I wanted them – I knew they’d make me happy, and I knew they were well earned. so there they sit, perched atop my bedside table, a colorful reminder of my tenacity. a tangible manifestation of the way I love myself. this is what I always deserved.

choosing myself was a seed. something was planted, and roots began to sprout that day. the fruit may not have flourished immediately, but look how I have grown.

it felt like the end, but it wasn’t. behind the door that lay beyond the breaking was a labyrinth of possibility. an endless maze of directions I could choose – each one more enticing than the last, and each one featuring me as the main character. it felt like the end, but it wasn’t. all I had to do was open that door.

years have passed. he is nothing but a distant memory – a story – he fades a little more each day. he is someone who existed a lifetime ago alongside a different version of me who also existed a lifetime ago. I no longer know him, and I no longer know her – the girl who loved him. I’m not her. I’m a testimony. that what feels like it will end you, won’t. and what feels like it will never heal, will.

on sundays I make myself breakfast. I turn the music up, dance around the kitchen, make whatever I’m in the mood for. of course I’m still careful when I crack the eggs but I don’t beat myself up if a shell makes its way in. it is fixable – I can scoop it up, dispose of it, and carry on with this ceremony. it is certainly nothing that should threaten to steal the joy of the morning. because it doesn’t ...