My boyfriend says I’m cool because during Zoom meetings, I hike through the woods sporting my chestnut Ray-Ban sunglasses with the tops of the trees as my background. I don’t think much of it, other than that it’s my preferred environment. I like to move.

One year, nine months and twelve days. By the end of our relationship, I could tell I wasn’t what was best for her. I would ask myself, “what went wrong?” I knew I didn’t deserve her. She would always prove her love and loyalty to me, but I still couldn’t trust her.

After my dad left, my mom couldn’t listen to love songs, especially sad ones. One that always got to her was “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac, and for the longest time I couldn’t understand why. But I think I get it now.

I’m writing this because as much as I would never want this to happen to anyone, we live in a cruel and evil world — and if it should happen to anyone, they shouldn’t feel alone. They should take some hope for the future; and for those who have the privilege of never experiencing this type of degradation, you take with you some empathy.

Sweet hummingbird, you are free — and so is he. Maybe there are days when you look at the beautiful artifacts of your love, cast in illusions. You observe the convictions immortalized on parchment, now lost to time. You observe them once more before you seal them into a box with a key — and then you don’t observe anymore. You set flight.

You teach me that some love stories are viscerally beautiful up until the very moment of their end, but that does not mean they are meant to last. They are meant to be experienced only as a precursor to the other things life has in store for us.