He helped me paint my apartment, and that was the last time I saw him.

I thought I was grieving a breakup. I think I was actually grieving the loss of access to someone I loved.

I wrote about this relationship on Reddit once before and eventually deleted it. I was still in the pain of it then, and I told the story almost entirely through the ending.

For months afterward, I kept looking for resolution from him. Some part of me believed that if I could explain myself correctly, apologize correctly, understand everything correctly, or get one more conversation, the pain would stop. When things ended, I did not handle the loss well. Fear, grief, substances, and my own inability to regulate what I was feeling turned me into a version of myself I do not particularly like looking back at.

Several months later, I see it differently.

The relationship was not very long, but for a period of time it became surprisingly ordinary, and I mean that as the highest compliment.

We walked everywhere. We cooked or ordered food and spent ridiculous amounts of time deciding what to eat. We watched TV on the couch. We went to a hockey game. We slept in. We made each other laugh. He got to know my dog. I learned his rhythms, when he needed company and when he needed to disappear into his apartment and recharge. There were mornings and errands and bad workdays and sick days and conversations that did not matter except that I liked hearing about his life. At one point we even talked about what a home together might look like.

And then it actually happened. He came over and helped me paint, and that was the last time I saw him.

There was an enormous amount of chemistry too, but strangely, that is not what I miss most.

I miss the ordinary access.

I miss knowing how his day went, the small observations that would not mean anything to anyone else, what he was watching, whether he was feeling better, what he was doing that weekend. I miss walking beside him and talking about absolutely nothing.

I think about things like walking down the street listening to Tame Impala, the world feeling soft and slightly unreal, and in my mind he is on the other side of the road doing the same thing. Not connected, not reaching for each other, just both of us existing in parallel.

Sometimes the hardest part is knowing that other people presumably still get those versions of him and I do not. He is out there being funny and tired and particular about dinner for somebody else, and I only know that secondhand, from memory.

I have had to learn that missing that access does not mean I am entitled to it.

That has probably been the biggest lesson.

Another person cannot be responsible for regulating my nervous system. Love does not create an obligation to stay. Regret does not create a right to another conversation. And understanding my behavior afterward does not erase its impact on somebody else.

Difficult lessons, but useful ones.

I am doing better now. Not "I never think about him" better - I do more like I can miss him without turning it into an emergency.

I can remember what was beautiful without using those memories as evidence that the story has to continue. And I can still love him while also accepting that what I need to heal is something I have to give myself.