The Breakup You Don’t See Coming

It wasn’t a lover. It was the me I used to be.

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I think it hit me sitting in the audience.
Dark theater. Friends on stage.
Same stage we used to share.
Back when I said yes to everything.
Back when I wasn’t afraid of being seen.

I used to get high off that laughter.
That moment when a line landed and the whole room bent around it.
When I felt like I could summon a world out of nothing but breath.

There was a night we made an entire set around a funeral home and a broken toaster.
It killed.
I walked off stage buzzing like I’d kissed God.

But they kept going.
Kept practicing, performing, growing.

And I didn’t.

Not because I stopped loving it —
but because I started seeing the price.

Friday nights. Saturday nights.
Every weekend spent chasing laughs like a jester in the court.
Smiling. Spinning.
Giving everything to make strangers feel something…
and going home hollow.

I didn’t want to become a performer who only lived under the lights.
Didn’t want to be clapped for and forgotten five minutes later.
Didn’t want my love turned into labor.
Didn’t want to be trapped inside the very thing that used to set me free.

So I faded.
From the team…
to the bench…
to the back row…
and eventually,
into black.

I clapped when it ended.
Said “great job” like it didn’t hurt.
But on the drive home, something broke open.

I cried before I even hit the freeway.
Like someone was pulling stitches out of my chest that weren’t healed yet.
Like I was bleeding through a shirt I didn’t even realize was white.

Tears fogged the windshield.
Streetlights became ghosts.
I had to keep blinking to remember where I was going.
And the only thing in my system was seltzer water and grief.

I wasn’t just grieving him — I was ashamed of how easy it was to forget he existed.
I hated how proud I was of them.
And I hated how small that made me feel.
Like my own growth was a rumor I stopped believing in.

I still hear that version of me sometimes.
The one who didn’t overthink.
Who said yes on instinct.
Who didn’t need applause to know he belonged.

But he’s quiet now.
Not gone — just faded.
Like a jacket you forgot at someone’s house years ago.
Like a voicemail you never deleted, but don’t press play on either.

I still have the notebook we used to pass around for warmups.
His handwriting’s in there. His bad ideas. His bravado.
I can’t throw it out.
Not yet.

I thought shedding would feel like wings.
But it just felt like loss.
Like watching your old self laugh from a place you can’t get to anymore.

He’s not coming back.
And I don’t want him to.
But fuck, I miss him.

The way he leapt.
The way he lived.

I loved him.
But I couldn’t keep him.
Not if I wanted to write like this.
Not if I wanted to tell the truth.
Not if I wanted to be new.

Because now I don’t perform.
I bleed slow.
I speak low.
I carve the silence and hand it to strangers, hoping one of them recognizes the shape of my ache.

Some nights I rehearse in my kitchen.
Just to see if he’s still in there.
I don’t invite anyone.
But I always leave the light on.