An ode to that long phase of time

“You can't stop what's coming. It ain't all waiting on you. That's vanity.”

— No Country for Old Men (2007)

There are lines in movies that only hit years later—not because they’re clever, but because you’ve finally become the person living them. What sounded cliché back then makes sense now, the same way I can’t seem to stop suddenly thinking of her on certain nights. It turns out, what’s coming arrives either way.

I don’t want her back. That part of the story is done, and I’m not looking to repeat it. But lately, I’ve caught myself thinking about the man I was when she was still around. Not because I wish time machines existed to take me back, but because I’m starting to wonder if that version of me is still somewhere within me.

This isn’t about longing. I’m not hoping for a reunion or wishing things had gone another way. It’s quieter than it used to be—almost too quiet. More like checking in with yourself when the room finally empties and all that’s left is your own breathing. I don’t miss the relationship or the status. I miss the sense of clarity I carried in certain moments back then. The way my thoughts felt less crowded, even when my shoulders were carrying more weight. How I seemed powerful without even trying.

She didn’t build that version of me, and I won’t give another person that kind of credit. But her presence did make it easier to see parts of myself I’ve been losing sight of lately. Back then, I was steadier. Not necessarily happier, but more aligned. More certain of where I stood, even if I didn’t know where I was going.

Since it ended, life hasn’t slowed down. I’ve pushed forward. Gained some structure, lost some softness. Soon, I’ll be on the other side of 30, and honestly, it’s hard to tell whether I’ve leveled up or just built better armor. Some days I feel like a stronger version of myself. Other days, it feels more like I’ve just gotten better at lying—good enough that even a few of my most chaotic friends now ask me for life advice.

I don’t carry ill will. It wasn’t easy for either of us. I’m not the only one who walked away holding a story. We were two people doing our best with what we had and what we understood at the time. Then life shifted, and we did too—each in our own direction. I carry a quiet respect for what it took to let go.

What I actually miss are those small, unspoken moments—the kind that didn’t feel life-changing at the time. A quiet room. A slower exhale. That brief clarity where I felt centered without having to earn it. It wasn’t really about her. It was about how I felt beside someone who didn’t ask me to be more than what I already was. Maybe after living alone for so long—since I was a teen—I’ve grown so used to carrying my own weight that I forgot I’m also allowed to receive care, the way people naturally should.

Now I’m trying to figure out if that version of me was real, or just a reaction to circumstance. Was he my best self back then, or just a well-lit reflection? Can I access him on my own now, or did he only show up under certain conditions—certain environments, certain relationships?

If that version of me was the most honest one, then he’s not gone. He’s just waiting for me to stop chasing him through old memories and finally give him room to exist here—where I am now. A little worn but still gritting my way through. Still capable of being that man, without needing anyone else to confirm it. At least I hope so.

Maybe the answer isn’t in looking backward. Maybe it’s accepting that the man I was then and the man I am now are both true. One was lighter. The other is tougher. Neither version is wrong. Maybe life does start at 30, and it’s not about knowing exactly who I’ve become—it’s about allowing both parts to exist without forcing them into one final definition.

She wasn’t just another point along the way. At that time, she felt like the destination—and I know I was that for her too. At least that’s what I truly believed. What came after only changed the ending, not the meaning of what it was. I don’t need to return to that place now, but I can still recognize how I stood a little differently when I believed I’d already arrived.

And in all fairness, moving forward feels like walking through a corridor of ghosts—somewhere between reflection and paranoia. Kind of like how I imagine a Mike Myers victim might feel in those movies. I know it might sound presumptuous, maybe even a little arrogant, especially knowing how strong she was and still is. But the thought lingers, still.

I don't know which law this is from, but if I remember right, Newton once said that an object in motion stays in motion unless something acts upon it. I think healing works like that too. If the past keeps coming like a motion, then all you can do is keep moving forward—generate enough force to loosen the gravity that keeps pulling you back into old memory.