Content

I recently broke up with my boyfriend. Almost a month ago now. And I don't know if I can say I'm completely over it yet. Last weekend I was crying to him that I still miss him, after all, but I think I'm getting there. Maybe that was one of the last things I had to do before I could begin moving on, but now I feel as if I'm coming back to myself. And, believe it or not, I'm enjoying the time to myself. Tonight, as I laid on my sofa in my studio apartment, drinking Sierra Nevada Summerfest, and simultaneously listened to an amazing old episode of This American Life, my leaky roof dripping into a pot on my floor, and the puddles splashing up as cars drove by outside, I felt truly content. The moments of nagging thoughts of our failed relationship are growing rarer and less intense with each passing day. I'm rediscovering my love for quiet evenings at home. I love going to bed early and having the entire bed to myself. I love getting up early, even on the weekends. I love not having to come up with a game plan for changing and going to work, like I did when I stayed at his house for the night. I love cooking with onions. I love the possibility of discovering what's next, but I'm appreciating this moment, too. The antsy, restlessness for weekend plans is fading. And my time is no longer measured by the last time I saw him. It's refreshing.