Why Does It Hurt?

 If we’re meant to listen to our bodies, mine has been speaking for a while. It’s not pain in the usual sense, not like a broken bone or a pulled muscle. It’s quieter, yet no less persistent. My chest feels tight, as if my heart is wrapped in a thin layer of stone. Breathing feels heavier, a constant reminder that something isn’t right.

I keep asking myself: Why? Why does my body feel this way? Why does my mind circle the same thoughts, like a needle stuck in a groove? I’m lonely. I’m disconnected. I feel no passion for anything. And when you live without passion or connection, what’s the point? Not of life itself, I’m not questioning that, but what about the kind of life I want to live? A life where you wake up with purpose, maybe even joy.

I’ve returned to therapy, hoping it might help answer some of my questions. So far, it’s only been one session, a small step, but a step nonetheless. Yet the loneliness remains. Therapy is just an hour a week, like trying to drain an ocean with a spoon. There’s so much I haven’t unpacked, especially when it comes to Aleks.

She wasn’t just a relationship; she was my anchor, my home, the person who gave my life meaning. Before her, my world was filled with regrets, choices I wished I’d made differently, paths I didn’t take. I wasn’t living; I was merely surviving. But when she came into my life, those regrets seemed to fade. It felt like every mistake, every decision, right or wrong, had led me to her. And then, she was gone.

Losing her wasn’t just heartbreak; it was the collapse of everything I’d built. Looking back, I see how much pressure I put on her, how I leaned on her to keep me afloat when I was barely treading water. I didn’t see it then, but now it’s so clear.

I loved her. I still do. I wanted a life together, something meaningful. For a time, it felt like we were in sync, walking the same path. But then that path split. She had her own challenges: university, work, navigating life in a country that probably still didn’t feel like home even after five years. I tried to give her a sense of home, but maybe it wasn’t enough.

I don’t want to assume what was in her mind, it wouldn’t be fair. But I can understand now why she might have felt overwhelmed, even suffocated by the weight of my needs. Still, the timing of her leaving cut deeply. I was at my lowest, struggling to get through each day. Part of me feels abandoned, but another part understands: she had to make a choice for herself.

Reconciling these feelings isn’t easy. The hurt is still there, but so is the love. I don’t want to hold onto anger or resentment because I respect what we shared. I value the joy she brought into my life. But knowing that doesn’t ease the ache.

I’ve tried to fill the void. I’m back at the gym, three sessions this week. I’ve met with a trainer and put together a plan. It’s a work in progress, but it’s a step forward, however small. The gym isn’t a solution, but it’s something to cling to.

Regret haunts me. Before Aleks, I had many. When I was with her, they vanished. But now they’ve returned, joined by new ones. Did I take her for granted? Did I hold on too tightly? Or was it always going to end this way?

When we were together, I didn’t ignore the hard times, I felt them deeply. But I didn’t understand them. It’s like being in the eye of a storm. You’re so focused on surviving that you don’t see the damage until it’s too late. Now the storm has passed, and I’m left standing in the wreckage, trying to piece together what happened.

I hope therapy can help untangle this mess, but I’m scared. Scared there aren’t any answers. Scared the answers will only lead to more questions.

Still, I’m trying. Therapy, the gym, writing, these are my steps forward. They don’t feel like solutions, but they’re something to hold onto when all I want to do is stop. Maybe that’s the point: not to find all the answers at once, but to keep asking questions, to keep showing up, to keep listening to the small voice inside that believes things can get better.

For a while now, I’ve had this recurring dream, or maybe it’s more like a waking thought. The doorbell rings. I’m upstairs, immersed in something, writing, photography, or catching up on university work. I head downstairs, open the door, and there she is. Aleks.

Her face carries a nervous smile, and she says hi, her voice soft and hesitant. From there, the dream splits into three paths. In one, I smile and greet her warmly. In another, I’m stunned into silence until she speaks. In the third, I don’t react at all, frozen by the weight of the moment.

But no matter how it begins, it always ends the same. I never turn her away. I invite her in, offer her tea or coffee, and we sit in the living room, the air thick with unspoken words. She looks like she’s struggling to speak, so I go first.

“I guess it took a lot for you to come here,” I say gently. “But let me put your mind at ease. Whatever it is you need, the answer is yes. Take your time, find the words, and when you’re ready, tell me what’s on your mind.”

I hold onto this hope that one day the doorbell will ring, or my phone will buzz, and it will be her. Every notification, every knock stirs a flicker of anticipation. But it’s never her.

I know this hope isn’t healthy, but I can’t let it go. It’s tied to something deeper: a belief in second chances, in reconciliation. A quiet ache that lingers no matter how much I try to move forward.

Writing about her, about us, gives me a strange sense of connection. Maybe it’s unhealthy, but for now, I need it. Whether it’s to process, understand, or simply feel closer to her, I don’t know. I need this. I need her. And yes, I see the irony. A part of me asks: Are you crazy? Are you this broken?

But another part of me whispers: this is what you need, for now.