He Cheated. He Left. This Is What I Know, 5 Years Later.

What grief sounds like when it learns to sing

My ex cheated on me.

Didn’t tell me, of course not.

He chose to break up over the phone.

Didn’t give me a reason.

It was during Covid. I had just moved to a new city, closer to him. Alone in that city, in that home. Far away from anyone who could gather me up and put a blanket around my shoulders.

On the phone, he said something like:

I’m not sure about us anymore.

I was silent.

He was—what?

His voice sounded distant. All the love and connection that had once been there were gone, without a trace. I remember the feeling of reaching out with my arms, trying to touch the idea of him, but there was nothing to feel. Nothing to catch. Thin air.

What are you saying? I asked.

He didn’t reply.

I don’t remember exactly how that call unfolded—it’s been five years—but in the end, he broke up with me without ever really saying so. He spoke so little that I eventually muttered: Are you breaking up with me?

There was a long silence.

Then something that could be taken as a yes.

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I wanted to write about this for a long time. I didn’t, because every time I tried, I felt like a vengeful bitch. I wanted to zoom in on all the ways he had cowardly missed the chance to treat me like someone he once loved. Instead, he left me painfully unaware of what was going on in his head, and with his dick. Yes, he had already been sleeping with his housemate. So there was no “us” to save.

I didn’t want to lose my good grace. Didn’t want you to think I was holding a grudge or throwing a childish tantrum. Or worse, pretending I had no part in it.

But that evening, and everything that followed, is part of my story. And yes, I am still angry. Full of fury. I want to put that anger somewhere, even if it’s only onto the page.

As I write this, my breath is heavy. My eyebrows furrowed. My lips pressed together.

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It’s wild what the body does when it’s hit with that kind of emotional force. The moment I understood that he really was breaking up with me, serious about it, my knees gave in. I slid to the floor. Like a heavy sandbag. Like mud. Sniffling, crying. Helpless.

We hung up. I felt sick. My hands pressed into my belly, was I going to throw up? No one had ever broken up with me before. This was new territory.

Painful.

Yes.

But also strangely distant.

And I can say now: his silence still disgusts me. Why didn’t he just talk to me? Look me in the eye?

And I can say this too: I had my own way of disappearing.

I didn’t cheat, but I was bored in that relationship. I resented more than I spoke. I stayed quiet because I wanted to be good. Easy. Uncomplicated.

Silence didn’t start on that phone call.

It had been there for a while.

Looking back now, I nod knowingly. I’m even a little satisfied.

With that night, brutal as it was, I was free to begin my next life.

And it did get better.

---

It’s late now. I’m sitting in my home in Berlin, looking at my reflection in the dark window. My lips are still pressed together. There’s a seriousness in my face.

I revisited that breakup today because I had been singing earlier. I feel strong when I sing. Alive. Most like myself. I’m a beginner, yes. But that doesn’t matter. The vibration of my voice moves through me and wakes something up. Breath becomes fuel. It grounds me. It frees what once got stuck, the emotions I never let myself feel.

My hands rest on my chest.

This afternoon, I was trying to access rage. My scream. I’ve been practicing emotional songs, and I want them to mean something. I want my voice to transform something inside me. To leave me lighter. Or clearer.

I close my eyes. Breathe deep into my belly.

Still, my voice sounds nice.

The good-girl pattern shows itself again.

Why can’t I let go? Even now? Alone in my room?

I sigh. Afraid someone will come home and hear me. My roars. Afraid of the neighbors above or below. Afraid of being perceived as—what?

Loud.

Demanding.

Taking up space.

Even though I’ve broken through this shame before, it’s still there.

I close my eyes again and imagine I’m somewhere else. Far away from Berlin. Somewhere the ocean crashes into itself, loud enough to ring in my ears. Wind in my face. Cold February air. A dark sky mirroring the turbulence inside me.

And then I realize: this is a memory. The stormy beach in The Hague. The day after that call. My new hometown back then. Just minutes from the sea.

Did I ever roar back?

I didn’t.

Salt on my lips. Tears on my cheeks.

Today, I will.

I see the back of my ex. Me at the window, watching him walk away for the last time.

I breathe in through my nose and follow the sensation through my body. What’s here now? Shock? Gone. Anger? Less violent than it used to be. There was a time I wanted to destroy things. I even burned some of his belongings. Then grief came. And underneath it all, the wound of betrayal. Of not being trusted with the truth.

My body curls forward. Heavy.

Sadness.

I stand again. Focus on my stance. On my breath. I picture the girl by the ocean. Heartbroken, lost, unsure. This time, something else moves through me. A faint wave. A quiet energy. My breath deepens. My fingers and toes tingle.

This is not rage.

Not helplessness.

This is not the woman who was left alone in the sand.

When I start singing again, my voice is quieter, but it carries weight. It reaches deeper, brushes against something dark and old without waking it fully.

There is the storm.

And there is me now.

Five years later. With more confidence. New paths. New love. And, most of all, a deeper connection to myself.

Not with me. Not anymore, my voice seems to say.

When I stop, I let the energy settle. The strength stays.

---

An old wound. An old memory.

Heartbreak. Starting over. Not getting answers.

What carries me now is my voice.

My feelings.

My fuel.

Roar back.

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