Love After Interruption
Some loves don't end.
They break too badly to survive the way they were.
Ours did.
For three years, we lived separate lives—not because the love died, but because it couldn't hold us together in the state we were in.
It was too damaged. Too raw. Too heavy with everything we hadn't learned yet.
But here's the thing no one tells you:
Just because a love can't survive proximity doesn't mean it disappears.
I don't think we could've killed it even if we tried.
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Three years apart does something to you.
Distance does too.
It doesn't erase love—it distills it. Strips it down to what's real and what was just noise. What was ego, and what was actually worth fighting for.
And what we learned in those three years changed everything.
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We learned that the way you talk to each other matters.
Tone matters. Timing matters. Words don't disappear just because you didn't mean them that way.
You don't get to speak carelessly to the person you claim to love most.
You don't get to throw the same anger at them that you throw at the rest of the world and expect them to absorb it without breaking.
The person you love is not your emotional dumping ground.
They are not your punching bag.
They are not required to survive your worst just because they promised to stay.
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We learned that love is a choice you make daily—not a feeling you fall back on when it's convenient.
If you love someone, treat them like it.
Even when they're not showing up perfectly.
Even when it's hard.
Even when it would be easier to shut down, walk away, or let silence do the damage for you.
Loving someone means growing together.
Learning together.
Holding each other accountable without cruelty.
Choosing repair over pride.
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We learned that saying "I love you" is meaningless if your actions don't back it up.
The person you love isn't something you own—they're someone you protect, care for, and never handle recklessly just because you believe they'll stay.
Please—treat them like they matter.
Treat them like they're irreplaceable.
Like losing them would actually cost you something.
Because it will.
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We learned to never go to bed angry—especially when you're sleeping apart.
Silence echoes louder at a distance.
Misunderstandings rot faster.
You don't get to roll over and try again in the morning when morning comes without them.
When you're apart, every unresolved fight lingers.
Every unsaid apology festers, like an open wound.
Every moment you choose pride over peace becomes a crack you might not be able to repair.
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And maybe the biggest lesson of all?
Protect the trust more than anything.
Distance makes self-sabotage tempting.
Loneliness makes their poor choices louder.
It is far easier to destroy trust than it is to rebuild it.
And once it's gone?
You don't get it back the same way.
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Loving someone without daily access means missing milestones. Missing moments.
Living with the quiet, constant ache of what if we had done this differently?
It means loving someone in absence—and that kind of love exposes everything you were avoiding when they were close.
It forces you to ask:
Am I choosing this person because I love them, or because I'm afraid of being alone?
Am I holding on to who they were, or who they're becoming?
Am I willing to do the work—not just when it's easy, but when it's excruciating?
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This isn't a story about separation.
It's about love after interruption.
And maybe the reason it still exists—after everything—is that it finally learned how to breathe.
Because we finally learned that love isn't just about staying.
