I didn't cry right away. That's what messed me up. The silence after the breakup was louder than any scream. No texts, no calls, no fake "I hope you're okay" messages. Just air. Thick, still, and cruel.

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at a phone that didn't light up. My hands were clenched. My mind was racing. I checked my phone again. Nothing. No one tells you that heartbreak doesn't start with the fight or the goodbye — it starts in the stillness that comes after. It's in the moment you realize they're not coming back. And worse, they don't care.

That's when my stomach flipped. Not from sadness, but rage. The kind of rage that makes you want to burn the whole world and rebuild it from scratch with your name on every corner. Rage with direction. That's when I knew — I couldn't let this break me.

Because here's the truth: breakups aren't cute. They're not poetic. They don't come with healing crystals or playlists that fix your spine. They hit like a car crash at midnight. You feel it in your bones. It rewires how you see yourself. You look in the mirror and you don't know who the hell's staring back. Eyes too tired. Skin too pale. Confidence? Gone.

That's where I started.

No savings. No backup plan. No hand to hold. Just me and the echo of a love that decided I wasn't enough.

He left with no warning. Just a cold explanation and some mumbling about timing. Said I was too ambitious. Said I was too much. Imagine that — a woman wanting more was the problem. I should've seen it. The way he flinched every time I talked about building something bigger. The way his face tightened when I mentioned launching my own thing. The way he needed me to be small so he could feel tall.

But I didn't shrink.