Chronicle

It’s strange, isn’t it? To think you’ve found your soulmate. To truly believe that someone is going to be there for you, to be your partner, your support, your everything. You think they’re kind, good, the type of person you can trust with your whole heart. So, you give them everything. Every part of yourself, every ounce of hope you have left.

And then they throw it all away.

They turn their back on you, choosing something—or someone—that makes no sense to you. They walk away from what you thought was love. And you’re left wondering what it all meant. What it all was. It’s a heartache so deep, it feels like your soul is cracking under the weight of it.

I was in love—truly in love. I thought they were in love with me, too. We had so much fun together, shared so many moments that felt sacred. I thought we had a bond no one could break. And then, suddenly, they became this cold, distant person. They turned to casual flings, to a life so detached from the one we shared. It’s like they became a stranger, like the person I knew was replaced by someone I no longer recognize.

It makes me wonder if this is even the same world I was in before. Everything feels upside down. Nothing makes sense anymore. The reality I thought I lived in has unraveled, leaving me grasping for something solid, something real.

I don’t trust the world anymore. I don’t trust the people in it. It’s like everything is a lie. And so, I’m searching—searching for an inner strength, for something bigger than myself, bigger than anyone else. Something strong enough to hold me together because right now, I feel like I’m slipping.

I wonder if this is what hell feels like. If I’m living in my own personal version of it.

I’m really struggling right now. The weight of the pain feels unbearable, like it’s consuming me from the inside out. I’m trying—trying so hard—to accept the reality that she doesn’t care about me. She never did. Nine months. It’s been nine months, and I still can’t let go of the idea that maybe, somehow, she could still care about me. How crazy am I to hold onto that hope?

Finding her with another man was the most heartbreaking moment of my life. Yet, here I am, wondering why I even thought I was anything to her. She doesn’t need me. She made that clear in a thousand ways. I’m nothing to her.

I keep telling myself I have to focus on me now. I have to become stronger—stronger than this pain, stronger than the heartbreak. I have to build myself up so no one can ever hurt me like this again. I want to be strong. I want to overcome this. But it feels like no matter how hard I try, the weight keeps pulling me down.

When the storm came, it broke something in me. I thought maybe, just maybe, she would need me. That I could be the one to show up for her, to prove how much I still loved her. But when I found her with him, it shattered me in ways I didn’t think possible. I thought I was on the verge of losing my mind before, but now, I’m certain. The edge is closer than ever.

I’m doing everything I can just to hold on—to hold on to any shred of sanity, to try and survive the way she’s treated me. But it’s hard. So damn hard.

This year, I’m making a promise to myself. By 2025, I’m going to change. I’m going to read the Bible. I’m going to focus on fitness, on getting in shape. Maybe if I distract myself enough—if I throw myself into something—this pain will loosen its grip. Maybe I won’t feel so lonely. Maybe I’ll stop missing her so much.

I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything I can think of. But she’s never going to be there for me. She’s never going to need me. She’s never going to love me.

Today, I sat down to map out my first day trip—something I haven’t done in a long time. As I started planning, it hit me how much there is to do, how many places there are to see. I realized I can’t rush through this. I can’t do an entire county in one day and expect to truly experience it, to really capture it the way I need to.

If I want to do this right—if I want to really absorb these places and take the time to get good pictures, to honor the memories—I’m going to have to slow down. Each stop will need its own time, its own hour to breathe. So I chose seven places for my first trip to Rock Hill, the place where this journey will begin.

It’s strange. Rock Hill feels like an odd place to start, yet it seems fitting. This trip, like so many of the others I will take, will be difficult. Sad, even. Because she’s not here with me. She’s not beside me, walking through these streets, laughing at the small joys we used to share. But I know that if I don’t do this—if I don’t walk these steps alone—I’ll never be able to let go. I’ll never be able to move on.

Sunday will mark the first real step in that journey. The first trip.

The first place on my list is Cherry Park. I remember looking at its green spaces and thinking how peaceful it looked. It’s a popular spot for locals, with trails weaving through the park. I’ll probably start the day here, walking the paths, taking in the morning air. Maybe it’ll give me some of the peace I need to carry me through the rest of the day. The park has art installations scattered throughout, and I can already picture how they’ll look in my photographs—pieces of calm amidst the chaos that has been my life lately.

From there, I’ll make my way to Winthrop University. It’s a historic place, with architecture that feels like it belongs to another time. The neoclassical buildings, the sprawling grounds—it’s the kind of place she would have loved. She had a way of making even the simplest of places feel like grand adventures. I can’t help but think of her as I will walk through the campus, passing Tillman Hall with its bell tower standing tall against the sky. It’s a reminder of how time keeps moving forward, even when we feel stuck in the past.

Next will be Glencairn Garden. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about this stop. The 11 acres of winding pathways and blooming flowers seem so serene, yet there’s an aching sadness in the thought of walking through a garden meant for two, by myself. She loved gardens almost as much as train depots. She would’ve marveled at the ponds, the small sculptures hidden among the greenery. I’ll have to take my time here, capturing the beauty around me while holding onto the bittersweet memories of what we once had.

After that, I’ll head to The Church of Our Saviour. Built in 1871, it’s a place full of history, much like the churches we visited together before. Gothic Revival architecture, stained-glass windows—it’s the kind of place that feels heavy with meaning. Maybe, standing there in the quiet of that church, I’ll find a moment of reflection. I’ll stand in the same silence that has been in my heart since she left, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to accept it.

The White House will be next on the list. A building that used to be a courthouse and post office, now just another piece of history. It’s a reminder that things change. People move on. Life moves forward, whether we’re ready or not. I’ll take pictures of its old architecture, but I know that it’ll serve as another reminder of how fleeting things are—how even the most solid structures, the most secure feelings, can crumble.

Then, there’s the Freedom Walkway. A place that commemorates local heroes of the civil rights movement. It’s humbling to think of the courage and strength that’s woven into this space, into the murals and stories it tells. Walking through the walkway, I’ll feel the weight of history, and it’ll make me think about my own path. I’ve been stuck in the past, clinging to what once was, while people throughout history have fought so hard to move forward. I need to learn how to do that—how to let go and walk my own path.

Finally, I’ll visit the Rock Hill Downtown Historic District. This area will be the heart of the trip, full of old 19th-century buildings, small-town charm, and places to stop for a quiet coffee. It’ll be a moment to breathe, to sit and reflect. Maybe it’ll be a chance to let the weight of the day settle in, to acknowledge the sadness that comes with making these steps without her by my side.

This trip, this day in Rock Hill, will be the first of many. But it’s more than just a day trip. It’s the beginning of something I have to do for myself. The beginning of facing the reality of what’s gone, and learning how to walk through it, step by step, until I can finally move on.

In order to finally complete this project, my photo book, I need to travel to every county in South Carolina and re-photograph many of the places I visited seven years ago. It’s really more of a photography project now, a way to capture not only the places I once knew but also how they’ve changed over time.

For my first official trip, I’ll be heading to York County.

This time, I want to be more diligent in planning. I’ll try to call places ahead of time or at least make sure they’re open before I go. One of the places I’m hoping to revisit is Historic Brattonsville. I’m not even sure if it’s open right now, but it’s the kind of place I want to capture again. There are also several gardens, and I believe there’s even a Buddhist temple somewhere in the area.

I’ve been inspired by an old book called South Carolina: A Day at a Time. It was written by two women who traveled all over the state, taking pictures and making fun day trips in each county. The book is pretty old now, and many of the places they documented probably aren’t in the same condition. I thought it might be fun to retrace some of their steps, but also add my own locations to the mix.

Back then, I wasn’t as interested in photographing churches, since the book featured so many. But now, I find myself drawn to them, fascinated by their history and architecture. I plan to make them a bigger part of my project this time around.

I’m looking for any historical sites or interesting locations in York County, places I can legally access to take photos. If anyone knows of any hidden gems, I’d appreciate the help.

A lot has been changing in my life lately. I’m starting a new job soon, and it feels like a big shift. I’ve been doing some soul searching, and with everything that’s happening, it feels like the right time to finally finish what I started.

But the only way I’ll ever complete this project is by starting over. I’ve come to realize that many of the places I wanted to include in the book might not even be there anymore. I’m going to have to revisit every single county, and it’s going to take time. But I’m ready.

This journey is just beginning.

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.

The story truly began in the aftermath of the storm.

There was something deeply symbolic about Hurricane Helene. It was one of the worst storms I’d ever experienced, both in terms of the physical devastation and what it stirred inside me. The destruction all around shook me to my core, forcing me to realize how fleeting everything is. The world I thought I knew wasn’t as permanent as I once believed.

Nothing stays the same. Everything changes. And everything can be gone tomorrow.

As I drove through the wreckage, with trees fallen on homes and vehicles crushed beneath their weight, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was that my life wasn’t reduced to rubble like the world around me. She was safe too, though the reality was clear—she didn’t care if I was okay. In her eyes, I was just a remnant of the past, something she had left behind. A nuisance.

That hurt more than I can explain. Realizing I’d never be enough for her, that she never truly loved me. It made something inside me snap.

I had already broken down countless times since she left me nine months ago. I had tried to cope in my own way, tried to find a new existence. But it was hollow, and I had been brought to such dark places without her. I had lost everything, including myself.

But it wasn’t until this storm—until that day—that I finally accepted the truth. She was truly gone, and she never loved me the way I thought she did.

So, I started traveling again.

Seven years ago, when we first met, we spent every weekend exploring together. We were inseparable, like kids seeing the world for the first time. No matter where we went, we made it magical. Even the smallest, most boring towns became adventures. It was the most beautiful chapter of my life, but I didn’t realize then just how much it meant to me—or how much I needed her.

I thought I could exist without her. I was wrong.

Seeing her with someone else that night was the breaking point. So, I set off, traveling like we used to. I drove through the hurricane’s aftermath, capturing the destruction with my camera. Photographing the chaos was the only thing that brought me some sense of peace. It was as if, through those photos, I was with her again—reliving our adventures. But this time, I was alone.

I had to accept that now. That I would always be alone. I had to learn to enjoy my own company, to find new adventures without needing anyone by my side. The hurricane had shown me how fragile everything was. Time wasn’t something I could waste anymore. I had to see the world while I could.

One of the most interesting stops on my journey was a house filled with painted mannequins. The woman who owned them was an art professor of sorts. Her collection was strange, fascinating, and I knew it was exactly the kind of place Katarina would have loved. She would have been enchanted by it. But she wasn’t with me. So I took as many pictures as I could and embraced the moment for myself.

I made a decision that day—to start talking to people again. To listen to their stories and learn about their lives. I wanted to capture not just the world’s physical beauty, but the lives and memories that existed within it. I wanted to document the world while it was still here—because like everything else, it was constantly changing.

Another stop on my journey was an old wall—over a hundred years old—part of a house that stood during the Revolutionary War. A tree had fallen on it during the storm, destroying a piece of history. I took pictures and posted them online, and the response was overwhelming. People were fascinated by the destruction, eager to see more.

It made me realize something. I had been wrong before in how I approached our project—the one she and I had started together. I had thought of it as capturing something permanent, but now I knew nothing was permanent. Everything was changing. The world, like the Zion Institute, was transforming before my eyes.

When I returned to the Zion Institute, the place was almost unrecognizable. When we had visited it years ago, it was nothing but ruins—an old brick building, crumbling and abandoned. She had let me take pictures of her there, and I still remember how beautiful she looked, even in the midst of decay.

Now, the place was fully renovated, standing tall and new. And as I stood there, looking at it, I realized how much time had passed—how much I had let slip away. That was the moment it truly hit me. If I was ever going to move on, I needed to finish what we had started. I needed to complete our journey.

We had once dreamed of traveling all over South Carolina, photographing historical sites, state parks, and strange oddities—like the world’s largest ball of yarn. We were going to document it all, together. But we never finished.

Now, it’s up to me to revisit those places. To complete the trip. To finish the project we began, so I can finally let go.

And so, I’m preparing to bring back the website, to revive the dream we once had. But this time, it’s different. I’m not trying to create some documentary or educational piece. I want to capture the world as I see it. As it is now, through my eyes.

Once, we did this together. We were in love, and it was the most beautiful, passionate love I’ve ever known. But now, I’m going to do it alone.

I have to.

Because only then, when I’ve revisited all the places we once shared, will I finally be able to move on—and be at peace.

It was during Hurricane Helene that I made a decision I probably shouldn’t have. I knew she didn’t want to see me anymore—she had made that painfully clear. But I couldn’t let go. Not fully. Even though I knew she had moved on, there was still this part of me that held on, convinced she might still need me somehow.

The hurricane had brought down trees everywhere, making the drive nearly impossible. A trip that should have taken eight minutes stretched into forty, as I navigated around fallen branches and debris. I kept pushing forward, telling myself I just wanted to check on her. It was a hurricane, after all. I didn’t want to worry, not knowing if she was okay. That’s what I told myself anyway.

When I finally made it to her house, my heart sank. There, standing on the doorstep, was another man.

In that moment, I felt the truth I had been denying for so long crash down on me. She had moved on. I knew it. Deep down, I had known it for months. But seeing him there made it real in a way I wasn’t ready for. The pain was sharper than anything I had imagined.

I circled the block, torn between walking away and confronting the truth. But I had to know. I had to be sure she was okay. I wasn’t there to cause trouble or make things difficult for her. I just wanted to know she was happy, that she was safe.

When I came back around, he was gone. In his place, she stood, cigarette in hand, like everything was normal. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but she barely acknowledged me. A few mumbled words—“Yeah, I’m fine”—and then she turned her back on me, walking away as if I didn’t matter.

It was clear she didn’t want to talk. Maybe she was going to get her new boyfriend, someone to run me off. I’ll never know. But what hit me hardest was the way she turned away, like I was a ghost from a past she no longer cared about.

Driving away in the storm, I broke down. Reality hit me like a wave. I had been living in a fantasy, convincing myself that we were soulmates, that somehow, after all the fighting and distance, she still loved me. But she didn’t. She had moved on, and I was stuck in the past, holding onto a dream that was never coming back.

That night, something inside me finally broke. I realized she was gone—truly gone—and that she no longer cared about me. It was a final, crushing blow, and in that moment, I knew I had to move on.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t shake the belief that she was my soulmate, my best friend, the person I thought I could always rely on. We had shared something special, or at least, I thought we had. I had taken her for granted, and now she was gone, and I was left with the weight of everything I’d lost.

That’s when I made the decision to retrace our steps. To go back to the places we had visited, the places that had once been full of life and adventure for us. Maybe by revisiting those moments, I could find some closure, some way to move forward.

Our story had been beautiful once. We had traveled, explored, grown together. I thought we were on the same path, working toward a future together. I had tried to give her the life she deserved, but I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t enough.

That night, in the middle of a storm, I had imagined myself as some kind of hero—coming to rescue her, to tell her how hard I had been working, how much I had wanted to give her the world. But instead, she had turned away. And there, in the home that used to be ours, was another man.

And that’s where this story begins.