My girlfriend said she needed space — I gave her a whole galaxy.

Описание: My girlfriend said she needed space — I gave her a whole galaxy.
When she said those words, I thought she meant a few days to clear her head. We’d been fighting about stupid things — toothpaste caps, late replies, the way she stared at her phone when I talked. It wasn’t toxic, just tiring. So when she sighed and said, “I just need space,” I didn’t argue. I told her I understood. I told her I’d wait. What I didn’t realize was that “space” wasn’t just distance. It was her way of preparing me for goodbye.
At first, I respected it. I stopped texting her good morning. Stopped sending memes she used to love. Every night, I’d look at our chat history — all those heart emojis and inside jokes — and tell myself not to scroll too far. It hurt less pretending she was just busy than admitting she was gone. A week passed, then two. I started jogging at the park near her apartment just to feel close to where she might be. Pathetic, I know. But when you love someone, logic doesn’t matter.
Then one night, I saw her. Not in person, but on Instagram. She was at a concert — smiling, glowing, standing next to a guy I’d never seen. The caption said, “The universe sends the right energy when you finally let go.” The universe, huh? I laughed so hard I almost cried. That’s when it hit me — she didn’t need space. She needed freedom.
I deleted her number that night, but my thumb hovered over the confirmation. My heart didn’t want to, but my mind whispered, “You already gave her a whole galaxy.” So I pressed delete. And for the first time in months, I felt something strange — not anger, not jealousy — just emptiness. A peaceful kind. Like when you step outside after a storm and the air smells new again.
But moving on wasn’t instant. I kept seeing her ghost everywhere. Her favorite coffee shop, the street where we took our first photo, the scent of her vanilla perfume in passing strangers. Some days I’d convince myself I was fine, only to wake up the next morning replaying the way she used to trace her fingers on my arm when she couldn’t sleep. Grief doesn’t announce itself — it lingers in the quiet.
So, I filled the silence. I repainted my room, joined a photography class, and learned how to cook my mom’s adobo. I replaced the pictures on my wall with photos I took myself — sunsets, beaches, random strangers smiling. Slowly, the world started feeling bigger again. I began talking to new people, laughing at things that didn’t involve her name. It wasn’t forgetting her; it was remembering myself before her.
Months later, I saw her again — this time in real life. Grocery store aisle, holding a basket of fruit, wearing that same nervous smile she had when we first met. She looked surprised, maybe guilty. She said hi like nothing ever happened. My heart didn’t skip this time. I just smiled back, nodded, and walked past. No drama, no bitterness. Just peace.
Outside the store, I looked up at the sky. It was one of those nights where the stars were scattered everywhere — endless, infinite. I realized I’d been searching for closure in her when it had always been waiting in me. Because when someone asks for space, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is let them drift — even if they never come back.
And maybe that’s what love really is: not holding tighter, but knowing when to let go. Not chasing what left, but cherishing what stayed — your peace, your growth, your light. It took losing her to learn that not every ending is a failure. Some are the start of a quieter, truer kind of freedom — the kind where you finally see yourself as enough.
Now, when people ask if I’m over her, I tell them I am. Because I didn’t just give her space. I gave myself the galaxy that came after — and for the first time, I’m learning to orbit my own sun.