In relationships, there’s always the initial stages where you’re learning about each other. You learn that he hates sushi or has a huge obsession with fantasy football. It’s that warming-up period where you learn how your quirks and his fit together, learn which “battles” to fight and which to let slide, learn to make it all work.
And then one day, it does. You know that he plays poker with the boys every Wednesday and shouldn’t disturb him during that time, know to expect him to come over on Sundays to mooch off your HBO subscription. You’ve left that precarious period at the beginning of the relationship where you’re worried that if he really found out that you organize your clothing by color and style (sad, but true) he’d declare you too anal and dump you on the spot in some juvenile asshole way like via email and entered into the honeymoon phase, where all is good and fine and he finds your type-A-ness adorable.
And then, when it ends (which it likely will, unless you found that gem who makes the honeymoon stage last forever), it’s not the schedules that you’ll miss, it’s the meaningless, mundane acts of nothingness that will suddenly reiterate the new-found void in your life. It’s not the restaurant that you two were so fond of; rather, the fact that you once drove his car home from that restaurant. It’s the comfortability that comes from time, the easy casualness of it all, the fact that you can sit in his car and know where he keeps his cell phone or the fact that his work badge is kept in the glove compartment. It’s the feelings of mutuality, the un-difficulty of it all, that makes you miss not necessarily him, but the feeling that you had when you were with him.
I always expected to miss the person, to miss their traits, their kindness or even their uniqueness, but I never thought that I’d miss a beat up old car and the way that the seats would recline just so.
That’s life – you never get what you expect, and never lose what you expect either.