Day: October 2, 2024

I know it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. And I know I’m probably just being foolish, but for the longest time, I truly believed she loved me.

I never expected the day would come when I’d find her with another man—inside the house we built together. A house full of our things, our memories. And there she was, giving herself to someone else. The reality of it hit like a punch to the gut. The truth I had denied for so long was right in front of me.

She had moved on. She really was that kind of person.

What hurt even more was the thought that she probably didn’t even love him. He was likely just another guy, someone she met at a bar, someone who didn’t mean anything to her. Yet there she was, and here I am, left to sit in the wreckage of everything we once had. I’m the one suffering, and she doesn’t even care. I don’t matter to her. Not anymore.

Maybe I never did.

I don’t know if anyone truly understands that kind of pain. The pain of realizing you’ve been replaced so easily, of knowing that someone who once meant everything to you now sees you as nothing. The pain of seeing the life you imagined with someone crumble before your eyes, while they move on without a second thought.

It’s unbearable.

And yet, that moment—the moment I saw her with him—made one thing clear: I have to move on. I have to stop living in this fantasy that she’ll come back or that she ever truly loved me. She doesn’t. She never did.

I’ve spent so much time lying to myself, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, she still cared. But she doesn’t. And I have to accept that.

No one is going to take care of me. No one is going to be there for me the way I wanted her to be. It’s just me now. It always will be.

I have to learn to live with that truth. I’ll always be alone.

In just two days, I’ll begin the journey. The one I’ve been preparing for—retracing the steps of our shared past. I need to decide where to start, to find the first place we ever went together and revisit it. But I’m still unsure where exactly that will be.

We explored so many beautiful places together. We traveled through South Carolina, from the highest point on Sassafras Mountain all the way to the beaches. We wandered through abandoned places in Columbia, like that old psychiatric hospital, which has since burned to the ground. We walked through the crumbling cotton mills that no longer stand. We visited state parks, each one offering a new adventure.

There’s so much to choose from. Where do I begin?

One of our trips took us to Mediaeval Times, that quirky restaurant where you watch knights battle as you eat. She was so sweet that day, full of excitement and laughter. I remember her kindness, her smile. I miss that version of her—the one who was so full of love, the one I thought would always be by my side.

We even got a camper eventually. We started camping a lot, and those trips were some of the best times we shared. We’d make passionate love beneath the stars, surrounded by the peace of nature. She was wonderful during those moments. Those memories still bring a bittersweet smile to my face.

One of the more unusual places we visited was South of the Border, that strange roadside attraction with gas stations, bizarre rides, and all kinds of weird things in between. It was such a strange place, but we made it fun. We made everything fun.

There are so many places I could start. Some of them hold a special connection. She had a dog she adored, Ralphie. I never got to meet him, but she always talked about him with such affection. We used to dream of getting a dog together—a swamp poodle, or something like it. I don’t remember the exact breed now, but it looked like Ralphie. I imagined us adopting one together after we got married, imagining what our life would look like with a dog and maybe even a baby someday.

But now, that future is gone. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again, and if I do, it won’t be because she misses me. It’ll be because she’s angry or upset about something. She’ll never reach out to me out of love. I know that now, deep in my heart.

Yet, despite that, I miss her every single day.

The next step is deciding where to begin this journey, where I’ll retrace the steps of our past. It’s the first step toward healing, and I know it won’t be easy. But I have to start somewhere.

I suppose it’s time to give some background—how we met and how this journey really started.

We were both on Facebook, part of a travel photography page that no longer exists. We shared a common interest in exploring and capturing the world through our lenses. I believe it all began when she commented on one of my pictures, and from there, we started talking. I was looking for someone to travel with, someone to explore South Carolina with—because I didn’t have anyone. I’ve always been a lonely person, much like I am now.

Back then, I resigned myself to taking pictures alone. I wandered through abandoned places, state parks, and different corners of the state, photographing for the sheer joy of it. I wanted to travel, to experience South Carolina. I just wanted to have some fun. And then I met her.

Katarina.

She was beautiful, sweet, and kind. I loved being around her, every moment feeling light and full of adventure. For the first eight months, we traveled together, taking photos wherever we went. It was a passionate time, filled with excitement and wonder.

But even in those early days, I wasn’t sure if she really wanted a relationship with me. In truth, I don’t think she ever did. She always seemed more interested in casual connections, never fully committing to the idea of being my girlfriend. She refused to wear a promise ring, or any kind of symbol that showed devotion. It was as if, from the start, she was ready to walk away at any moment. That hurt. I never felt like she truly needed me, even though I needed her.

Katarina was strong, fiercely independent. She had been through a bad relationship before we met, and I think it scarred her in ways I couldn’t fully understand. She had learned to rely on herself, to trust no one but herself. I admired that strength, but it also created a distance between us that I could never quite close.

Looking back, I realize that neither of us expected to fall in love. She probably didn’t want to, and I certainly hadn’t planned on it. But I did. I fell hard. I wanted to be with her, to build a life with her. I don’t think she ever felt the same, and that truth slowly revealed itself over time.

Things were perfect in the beginning. We laughed, we explored, we captured the world together. But as time passed, the struggles crept in. We fought. She distanced herself. Yet, for those first few years, I believed we had something real, something worth fighting for.

Now, as I prepare to revisit the places we once explored, I know it will be incredibly difficult. These trips will force me to confront the reality that she’s gone and that she never loved me the way I thought she did. But I also know that retracing our steps is necessary for me to heal. If I can make it through these first few trips, maybe—just maybe—I can begin to let go.

We were together for six years, though in hindsight, I think we were only truly together for a few. After that, she started seeing other people. She broke up with me multiple times, and her heart wasn’t in it anymore. I should have let her go long before the end, but I held on. I’ve always had trouble picking up the pieces without her.

She changed so much in those final years. I don’t even know if the girl I once knew, the free-spirited, cheese ball adventurer, still exists. She doesn’t speak to me anymore. She ignores everything I say. And if I’m honest, I believe she probably hates me now.

But despite all of that, I still love her. I love her with all my heart. To me, she’s the most wonderful person in the world. I know I made mistakes, and I carry those regrets every day. She was my soulmate, and I truly believed we could have had a life together.

Looking back, I see the choices I could have made differently, the things I should have done to keep her. But I wasn’t ready. I needed help, and I needed time. She healed me in so many ways, gave me a kind of love I hadn’t known before. I thought she would always be there, that she would dedicate herself to me. And I would do the same for her.

I imagined myself as her savior, the one who would protect her, take care of her, and eventually marry her. I dreamed of giving her a perfect life. But those were just dreams. Dreams that I held onto long after she had let go.

Today, I made a decision. One month from now, almost exactly seven years after we first met, I’ll be returning to the Breeden Inn. Alone.

It was spontaneous. I booked the reservation for the closest Saturday I could to that original date. It feels surreal—knowing that I’ll be retracing the steps of our first adventure, but this time without her. It’s going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I also know it’s something I need to do. It’s the only way I might finally be able to let go.

In a handful of days, I’ll pack my bags and prepare for this journey. I’ll stay at the inn by myself, visiting some of the best places we stayed at during our first adventure. But this time, I’ll be looking for a few new places too—places I’ve never explored, places we never had the chance to see together.

I already know it’s going to be incredibly hard. Everything about it will be a reminder of what we once had. But I need to do it. I need to plan out the trip, just like I did when we first met. Back then, I would make detailed maps, carefully selecting locations we would visit. We’d go to each place, take pictures, and post them online. It was so much fun. Those were some of the best times of my life.

This time, I’ll do it alone. I’ll revisit each place, and maybe through that, I can start to heal. There’s a lot of work ahead of me though. South Carolina has almost fifty counties, and I plan to visit each one. That means fifty trips, but if I stay committed, I believe I can do it. Maybe if I knock one trip out every other week, I’ll finish within two years. Hopefully, I’ll be done before I turn forty—that gives me about a year and four months.

The thought is both overwhelming and exciting. This project, in a way, feels like the last thread tying me to her. If I can complete it, maybe I can finally let go.

While at work today—one of my last days at the entertainment center, a place full of noise and distraction—I made the call. The Breeden Inn picked up. I hadn’t thought it through entirely, but something in me knew I had to do it. So I booked the room.

Seven years later, almost to the day, I’ll be standing in the same place where one of our first major adventures began. But this time, it will be different. This time, it’s just me.