Page 197 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

Take it one day at a time. One breath. One unbearable 10 P.M. at a time. Sit with the pain instead of running from it. Let yourself grieve what you hoped it would become.

Because healing is rarely the moment you stop loving someone.

It’s the moment you stop losing yourself while loving them.

It’s learning that grief can exist without controlling your entire life. That memories can stay without reopening the wound every single day. That your worth was never measured by who stayed or who left.

Real healing is quieter than people expect.

It looks like sleeping peacefully again. Laughing without guilt. Replying to messages. Making plans for yourself. Wanting to live your life again instead of merely surviving it.

And maybe the most beautiful part is this:

The version of you waiting on the other side of heartbreak is often stronger, softer, wiser, and far more whole than the version that entered it.

And maybe that’s why situationships hurt the way they do, because they live in the space between almost and never.

In the end, I survived the situationship, not because it loved me gently, but because I finally learned to love myself enough to walk away from what didn’t.

EPILOGUE

One random Wednesday afternoon in June, I found myself inside Lost Books—one hand wrapped around a decaf Spanish latte while the other trailed lazily along the shelves.

The place was tiny, but it smelled like paper, coffee beans, and rain trapped inside wood. Honestly? Heaven.

Warm yellow lamps glowed softly against the green shelves stacked too tightly with books that looked loved instead of displayed. Some were arranged neatly while others leaned carelessly against each other like they had stories of their own. Small tables sat at either corners of the very small space, cluttered with cups, and half-finished journals abandoned mid-thought.

Plants spilled from corners and high shelves, softening the place further. And somewhere near the back sat the café, tucked tightly into the bookstore like an afterthought that somehow completed the entire space.

Despite being in the middle of the city, the bookstore always felt suspended outside of time. Like Southside kept rushing somewhere else while Lost Books quietly refused to follow.

I scanned the fiction section absentmindedly, tilting my latte slightly as I read spines one by one.

Then suddenly, a light tap landed against my shoulder.

I turned around and immediately smiled.

“Hey, Southside King!”

The owner of the bookstore grinned at me.

His name was D—shorter than me by a few inches and dressed in a crisp white button-down with sleeves folded neatly to his elbows. He carried himself with the effortless friendliness of someone who had spent years building a place people wanted to return to. His face was warm and approachable in that rare way that made strangers instantly comfortable around him.

“Hi, D,” I laughed softly. “Love your place, as always.”

He placed one hand dramatically over his chest. “As you should.”

I chuckled.

“You added more books!”

“And less space,” he corrected proudly, looking around. “Which means success.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“It’s called ambiance, King.”

We both laughed at that.