I have been in a relationship with Jon for two years (27 months, to be exact). We did all of the wonderful, mundane things that millions of people do when they are in love. We dated: movies, hikes, concerts, vacations. We were there for each other in difficult and joyous times: funerals, weddings, births. It has been over a year that we have shared a home in Elizabethtown, which is equi-distant from our two cities: Christmas decorations, weekend cooking projects, home improvements, puppy adoption. Next Friday he is moving back to Harrisburg. In five weeks I will move back to Lancaster.
Our romance breathed its last on Tuesday, September 7 shortly before midnight.
It is difficult to articulate the pain of a break-up to outside parties. Most people have been in painful break-ups of their own at one time or another, but the nature of a relationship is inherently personal.
Other people do not know the thousands of reasons why we loved one another.
In the end, specifics of both our love and the reasons for our break-up do not matter.
Our hearts are broken.
Our futures will not run parallel into infinity like we had hoped.
Fond memories of when our hopes were intertwined still linger in the air.
