CHRIS STURNIOLO IMAGINES

Back to December

The December chill seeped into my apartment, the cold air a constant reminder of the time of year when memories seemed to surface more sharply. The warmth of the holidays couldn't quite reach the places inside me that still ached. I stared out the window, my eyes fixed on the soft snowflakes drifting from the darkened sky, the world around me blanketed in white. There was a stillness to the scene outside, yet within me, the quiet was filled with the echoes of last year—the echoes of my breakup with Chris.

It had been a year, but it somehow felt like it had all happened yesterday. The weight of everything we had shared still lingered in my heart, an uninvited guest who refused to leave. I let my thoughts drift back to that time, back to when everything had unraveled. It wasn't just the big moments that stayed with me; the small, everyday fragments replayed repeatedly in my mind. I could pinpoint the exact moment I decided I couldn't pretend anymore, the night I had to give him his things back.

It had been cold that evening, the cold that made your breath visible in the air and your fingers numb just from holding a cup of tea. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the box before me. It was filled with all the remnants of Chris: his hoodie, the one that always smelled like him, the half-used bottle of cologne he had left on my bathroom shelf, a few shirts and books, the random knick-knacks he had accumulated at my place over time. I had packed it all up earlier that day, my hands trembling as I carefully placed his things inside, trying to ignore the tightening in my chest.

The box was heavier than it should have been as if it carried more than just his belongings. It held memories of quiet mornings together, laughter, promises made and broken, and the space between us, filled with all the unsaid words. When I had finally finished, my chest felt tight, and a dull ache settled deep inside me. It was like saying goodbye without a single word.

I still remembered the way his eyes had looked when we'd first met in person after I sent the text asking him to come pick up his things. Chris wasn't just any ex; he was the person I had shared so much with—the late-night talks, the quiet mornings, the plans for the future. The thought of handing him that box felt like I was giving away a part of myself, like losing something I could never return.

When the doorbell rang, my heart skipped a beat. I didn't want to open the door or face the reality that stood on the other side. But I knew I had to. I opened the door, and he stood in the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his face drawn as the weight of the past few weeks had settled on his shoulders. His gaze met mine, and it felt like time froze for a split second. He looked different now, older somehow, yet still undeniably Chris—the same warmth in his smile and familiar glint in his eyes.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft and almost uncertain, as though he, too, was dreading this moment. It wasn't a casual hello but a farewell wrapped in a single word.

"Hey," I replied softly, my voice more fragile than I wanted it to be. I wanted to seem strong, like I had it all together, but I was anything but inside. I handed him the box, its physical weight making my chest tighten like I was giving him the last of our shared moments. His eyes lingered on the box for a moment before meeting mine, and I saw it then—he was just as uncertain as I was, as torn as I had been.

"You didn't have to pack all this up," Chris said, his voice tinged with sadness, like he was trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. "I could've come back and gotten it."

But I had known. I knew this was the cleanest way to end it, the only way that wouldn't leave me wondering what if. There was no point in dragging it out. The easiest way to say goodbye was to make it final, to give him back what was his and let go of everything that wasn't. And even though it hurt more than I ever thought it could, I had done it because I needed to.

"I thought it'd be easier this way," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry, Chris."

He nodded, but his gaze softened, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or the same sorrow I felt deep within myself. We had already said everything that needed to be said, or so I told myself. But in the silence that followed, I couldn't help but wonder if I was making a mistake. Could we have fixed things? Could we have fought harder for each other?

But I knew, deep down, that no amount of trying would have changed the fact that we had grown apart. It wasn't anyone's fault; it was simply the way things go. People change; sometimes, no matter how hard you try, love isn't enough to hold two people together.

"I guess this is it," Chris said, his voice thick with emotion, and my heart shattered again. He didn't say it like he wanted it to be over, but like he was accepting the truth we had both been avoiding.

"I guess it is," I replied, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay composed. I didn't want to cry—not in front of him, not after everything we had been through. But it was so hard to let go of someone who had been my best friend, confidant, and love.

We stood there for a moment, neither knowing what to do next nor wanting to let go. Eventually, Chris stepped forward and gave me a hug—one last embrace. It was brief, but it meant everything. As we pulled away, I felt a mixture of relief and devastation—relief that the finality had come but devastation that it had come at all.

With one final glance, Chris walked out of my apartment, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing the chapter of our lives filled with so much promise and now so much loss. I stood there, feeling left holding only the remnants of what we had shared. Everything good between us seemed to have disappeared, leaving nothing but the emptiness where it once had been.

The days that followed felt like a blur. The world outside continued to move on, the holiday season swirling with festivity and joy, but for me, everything had stopped. I missed him in ways I hadn't anticipated. I forgot how he made me laugh, how we could be completely silly together, how he understood me better than anyone else. I missed the comfort of being close to someone, of sharing a life with someone who knew all the small things that made me who I was. But it wasn't just that—I missed the sense of togetherness, the feeling that I wasn't alone in the world.

It took time—weeks, months—to start feeling like myself again. Slowly, the empty space left by Chris started to fill with other things: friends, new experiences, and personal growth. But every now and then, the memories crept back in, especially around December. The holidays, once a time of warmth and connection, now felt colder, a reminder of what I had lost.

Sitting alone in my apartment a year later, I thought about reaching out. I still missed him, more than I wanted to admit. But what would it mean if I did? Would it change anything? Would it be fair to either of us? I had learned that sometimes, closure didn't come from talking or explaining—it came from simply accepting that things had ended for a reason and that letting go was the only way to move forward.

I glanced down at the photo of us on my bookshelf, taken on a day when everything had felt right when the world had felt full of possibilities. I could still remember that day so clearly: the way Chris had looked at me, his smile so warm and full of hope, the way he'd made me feel like I was the most important person in his world. But that was then, and this was now.

I let out a long breath, wiped away the tears from my eyes, and finally stood. The snow was still falling softly outside, blanketing the world in its quiet serenity, and as I looked out the window, I realized that there was something beautiful about letting go. Whether I was ready or not, life had a way of moving forward. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

With one final glance at the photo, I walked away from the past and into the future, knowing that Chris's memories would always be a part of me, and I would have to accept that.