Nine years later, the sun still rose over Puerto Rico—but today, the light felt like betrayal.

We were once so vivid. How many times had we escaped here? Your favorite beach: Isla Verde, where salt air smelled of laughter and possibility. We’d sit under its palms and dream of forever. I can still feel the warm sand beneath me, feel how hopeful we both were. But today? Those same grains now feel cold, sharp reminders of what you left behind.

I arrived at the shore this morning, carrying a suitcase full of memories—not suitcases, but echoes of us. Your message came just as the tide pulled back: “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” A lifeline cut without warning. You were gone before the rainclouds formed.

The wedding ring you once placed on my finger—our promise—now feels like rusted iron bagged in grief. Abandoned. I walk the cobblestone streets of Old San Juan, our laughter replaced by the hollow echo of my own footsteps. I pass the little café where we shared morning coffee, where you traced circles on the table, saying, “One day we’ll have kids. A house on the hill. A life together.”

Today, that all died in a text.

I’ve lost you here—in Puerto Rico, the place that holds everything we dreamed—and so I lose myself, too. Because I had built every plan upon us. And now I’m left with fragments: the smell of the ocean, the taste of mango on a street cart, the flutter of palm fronds—and your name, a ghost whispering in the breeze.

I loved you then. I loved you today.

And I will love you in all the tomorrows that once seemed possible.

But for now, I stand alone on this shore.

— with all that I was and all that I hoped we’d be