The person who initiates a breakup is almost always cast as the villain. Society assumes it shouldn’t hurt you because you were the one who chose to leave. As if choosing yourself automatically numbs the heart.

But if it didn’t hurt, then maybe you didn’t love while you were there.

Nothing prepared me for the drumload of emotions that struck immediately after I said, I don’t want us to continue with this relationship. Before the words left my mouth, I was already shaken to my roots. Saying them out loud simply made everything real.

And in that moment, I lost it.

Not almost. I did.

I broke down like my entire world collapsed into tiny fragments, a private reenactment of the wall of Jericho falling flat. The tears came without restraint, as though an ocean had found a new home in my eyes. I cried until sleep took me. I cried when I woke up. I cried when I thought of him. I cried when I thought of the lost us. I cried until my eyes stayed red, until crying felt like breathing.

And it wasn’t just tears.

My heart felt everything. My emotions have always lived close to my chest; whenever I’m emotionally down, my heart follows. This time, it felt like someone was pulling it apart with the precision of a meat seller - clean, accurate cuts that somehow hurt more because of how deliberate they felt.

For a week, food became irrelevant. Everything tasted foreign. My kitchen felt like a stranger. Friends nearby cooked for me and gently forced me to eat what little I could manage.

Heart palpitations became my closest companion. My heart would suddenly race without warning, like it was trying to escape the weight it was carrying.

I missed him. I missed what we had. I listened to old call recordings I had saved, scrolled endlessly through our chats, hoping for comfort but they only deepened the ache.

I feel deeply in general. But during that period, it felt like my emotions were turned up several notches higher than usual. Every feeling arrived amplified.

The trickiest part was the blame.

I couldn’t fully blame him because I was the one who chose to let go. Yes, I blamed him for a few things here and there, but for the outcome, for the ending, I carried the responsibility. The decision was mine. The pain followed, even though the decision was necessary.

I spiraled.

Sleep was something I craved but only received after crying myself empty. Movies, books - the things that once gave me joy became tasteless. Even distraction refused to work.

I told a friend I never wanted to be in a place like that again. It’s a terrible place to be, especially for someone like me, someone who feels intensely, almost excessively.

This is not advice. There’s no moral lesson here.

This is simply a chronicle of how breaking up feels from the side of the person who walks away, and still breaks.

This is me, putting it down as it was.