On the night of June 5th, Jenna and I saw each other again—virtually. A quiet FaceTime call that held a million emotions just beneath the surface.

I started the call feeling anxious, overthinking everything like usual. My thoughts were racing, my chest was tight. But somewhere between hitting “dial” and seeing her face, I told myself to breathe. To stop wasting energy worrying about what-ifs and just be present.

The conversation was calm. Familiar. And I felt relieved knowing she was okay—even though she was sick with a rough cold. She told me how it made her realize how important health insurance really is. I agreed with her completely. Then came a vulnerable moment—she said she was scared I might think she was taking advantage of me by staying on my insurance. That hit me hard. I told her no, not at all. I offered it to her. Because I still care about her well-being, regardless of where we are in our relationship. That doesn’t just disappear.

She shared how some of her friends had dropped off meals and supplies, and she was grateful. But then she admitted something deeper—how she wants to make more friends. That even though her job is steady, her health isn’t, and it’s been a lonely road. She started to cry as she spoke. And I just listened. I told her it was okay to cry. That I was here.

When she asked to keep using the insurance, I didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” I said. “Please do.” I know her struggles, and I’d never turn my back on her in a time like this.

We ended up talking about events I’d been to. For a moment, I realized something strange… I didn’t feel anxious anymore. I felt grounded. Even when we shifted to talking about stressful stuff—like taxes and the IRS—my calm stayed. Jenna said she felt overwhelmed, so I offered help. And she actually thanked me. I told her I had found someone with better experience to guide us through the tax maze.

Before we wrapped up, I asked if she could take care of our cats while I’d be away in July. She agreed. I smiled and said she’s still their fur mom. That part hasn’t changed.

And yet… something had changed.

After the call, I noticed I wasn’t feeling anything extra. Not the usual heaviness or heartbreak. Then it hit me—oh. I had taken my ADHD meds earlier. Maybe they softened the emotional spikes.

Still, over the following week, I tried to stay on top of things. I kept her updated about the IRS situation. She replied politely. When a second warning letter came in, I let her know I’d cover the penalties to avoid bigger fees, but I asked her to send me her half. She agreed to send it by Saturday, and even asked me to remind her in case she forgot.

Since then? Silence.

Here’s the truth though: deep down, I’m still hoping. Hoping that maybe, someday, we can be friends again. Not just a “cordial ex” kind of friendship, but something real. Something healing.

I know it’s not up to me. She asked for space, and I respect that. I always have. But part of me will always be rooting for reconnection. Even if it’s just as two humans who once loved deeply and now care quietly from a distance.

This is where we are now.

Not lovers.

Not quite friends.

Just two people on separate paths that still intersect in tiny ways.

And I’ll keep walking mine.

With grace.

With honesty.

With hope.

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Questions for You, Dear Reader:

• Have you ever held space for someone you love, even as they drift away?
• What does “caring from a distance” mean to you?
• When do you know it’s time to let go… and when do you choose to hold on?
• Do you believe friendship can be reborn after heartbreak?

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments or message me privately. I’d really love to hear what this stirs up for you.