There is a disorienting kind of silence that often follows deep heartbreak. It’s not the kind of solitude that feels peaceful, that feels like an exhale — it’s the kind that feels hollow, the kind that feels loud, like something sacred has been siphoned from your world, and all that’s left behind is space you don’t know how to exist within. 

This is the first real night without them. The first night without a “sweet dreams” text. The first night without the weight of their voice as the last thing you hear before falling asleep. The first night without the peace that comes from the familiarity of their love. Even if the relationship was painful towards the end, even if the goodbye was looming — tonight still hurts. Because tonight, it is final. It is real, and it is quiet in a way that cracks you open, in a way that aches.

Maybe you expected to feel lighter. Maybe you thought clarity would come with a healing sense of relief. But grief is never that neatly organized, it is never that cleancut. You are not only mourning a connection that meant something to you, but you are also mourning the version of yourself that belonged to them. You are mourning the comfort of knowing who to call, the gentleness of being chosen, the security of love. 

Remember — you don’t have to rush your heart when it comes to this healing. You don’t have to convince yourself that this meaningful experience didn’t matter. It did matter, even if it ended for the right reasons. Even if there were things that never felt quite safe, or aligned, or easy. The love you gave was still real, it was still rooted. The hope you carried was still light-filled and tender. And your heart, in all of its softness, was never mistaken for caring the way it did. It was never wrong for what it gave.

Tonight — the aloneness is loud, but God is louder. Not in volume, but in presence. In steadiness. In the kind of love that doesn’t disappear when someone else does. He is with you. Here. In the middle of this unraveling. In this space between heartbreak and healing. 

This night is most likely not going to offer you closure. It may not hold a deep sense of peace within it. But it does hold God, and that matters. That changes things. Even if you can’t feel it yet. Because the God that created your heart is the God that knows how to mend it, and tonight, as your body remembers what it’s like to fall asleep without their name in your messages — God remembers you. Completely. Tenderly. Without condition.

Let it be quiet. Let it hurt. Let it mean something. You are not alone tonight. You never have been.