When I walked away at 42, I carried with me a quiet but undeniable truth: love wasn’t something you could hold onto simply because you wanted it to stay.
The years that followed weren’t dramatic.
But they were filled with small disappointments—the kind that don’t break you all at once, but slowly reshape what you expect from life.
I met men who seemed promising at first. Conversations that sparked hope. Relationships that almost worked—until they didn’t.
Over time, without consciously deciding it, I stopped expecting anything lasting from any of it.
I wasn’t bitter. I wasn’t even particularly sad.
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