Chloe Lessard

I used to dread the sound of his keys in the door. That sharp jingle would cut through my concentration like a knife, whether I was reading for class or simply letting myself breathe for a moment. At first, I thought that was normal. Everyone says relationships take work, right? I told myself that over and over until I couldn't tell if I was lying or just trying to survive the day.

It’s been a week now since I told him not to come back. I’m twenty-six, born and raised in Vancouver, Canada. For two years, I was in a relationship that drained the color out of everything—my psychology studies, my friendships, my own sense of self. My textbooks still lie open, highlighter paused mid-sentence. There’s a strange kind of silence in my apartment now, not peaceful exactly, but hollow. It’s like my ears are still waiting for the tension to return.

He was the type of man people turn to look at on the street. Friends teased me, called me lucky. “He’s so charming,” they’d say. “You two look perfect together.” I nodded, smiled. Perfect, yes—if perfection is measured by how good someone looks with their hand casually resting on your lower back, even as they cut you down in whispers no one else hears.

He never hit me. That matters to some people, as if pain only counts when it leaves a mark. But the things he said clung to my ribs. The way he questioned everything I did, how he made me feel small when I disagreed with him, how he could smile at a party and then go silent in the car for hours, just to punish me. That wore me down more than anyone can see.

Breaking up should have been a victory, but it feels more like stepping off a ledge and hoping I’ve remembered how to fly. I keep thinking I’ll feel relieved. But grief is strange—it doesn’t ask if you’re better off now. It just sits beside you, silent and heavy.

Still, I know this: I’m out. And I’m not going back.