Five seconds at a time turns into ten. Ten seconds becomes a minute, a minute stretches into an hour, and somehow—through the ache, through the weight—you find yourself making it one day at a time.

When the truth finally came out his mouth, I felt like I slipped out of myself—like I was watching my life from the outside, disconnected and numb. My body kept moving through the motions, but inside I was hollow, floating somewhere far away. At the same time, there was this crushing weight in my chest that never seemed to lift. Every breath was shallow, every moment heavy, as if grief had planted itself inside me and refused to let go.

I wish I could say it ended in flames—a screaming match, a breaking point where everything finally shattered. But there was nothing. Just him sitting there, calm and cold, dragging on his vape as if the life we built was nothing but smoke to exhale and forget. That indifference pierced deeper than rage ever could, and the crushing shock of realizing it was already gone felt like being hollowed out from the inside.

In moments of weakness, standing in the silence, I had to remind myself of the promise I made myself long ago: never beg to be loved, no matter how deeply I feel it.

He sent the text to Thad: “I called time of death. I hope you’re ready to move.” With those words, everything we were was dismissed, our life together reduced to nothing more than a punchline in his plan. To him, it was that simple—cruel, calculated, and deliberate. The future I thought we were building was already replaced, and the sting of realizing I had been written out so easily is a pain I will never be able to put into words. 

The days of living together after the truth came out were chilling, like walking through a house that had gone hollow overnight. The silence was heavy, broken only by a few clipped words that still echo in my mind, replaying louder than they were ever spoken. I was given only days to pack my life into boxes and figure out my next move, all so Thad could move in as if I had never existed. I kept trying to rationalize the judgment, the sheer insanity of it all, but none of it made sense. Every promise we once made about how we’d handle things if we ever got here suddenly meant nothing—because it no longer served him. Every room felt colder, every routine sharp with the reminder of what was lost. Those days weren’t just quiet—they were haunting.

As I sat in the house, trying to piece together the ruins of my life, it struck me how everything I was, everything I had sacrificed, could now be packed into a few worn boxes. I had given up so much to move into his house to become our home, to build a life there with him—and in the end, I was left scrambling to gather what was left of me.The few words he spoke—when he wasn’t hiding away with Thad—were deafening in their selfishness: “The optics of this look bad. How do I spin this? Tell people we fell out of love.” Not once did he ask if I was sleeping, how I was surviving, or how I was muffling the screams in my chest. In those moments, the mask slipped, and I caught glimpses of a shallow man I never imagined could exist inside him.

It’s a surreal kind of cruelty when someone looks you in the eye and tells you that you fell out of love, that you weren’t happy—as if they have the authority to rewrite your heart for you—while in the same breath they’re shattering the life you built together. And what cuts even deeper is knowing I’m not even allowed to say I was blindsided, not allowed to admit I didn’t see it coming, as if my pain needs his permission to exist.

“I had the money set aside for this, I’m paying for the movers as a consolation prize to get him out.”, “This is going to a little bit of a wild ride and probably one of the craziest things we will ever do, but I do love you and I know we can make the best of it.”, “We got this, soon we’ll just be able to be together, just us.”, “I mean there’s a chance we run away, but one step at a time.”, “We have to be strategic in how we tell people about us.”, “I want to protect what’s special between us, you make me feel heard and in seen in ways people never really have before”, “People will believe me because people are dumb and I’m likable.” - The words from those messages still linger, etched into my mind, and I know I should have left them unread. Instead, I let them carve deeper into an already breaking heart.

Every memory I revisit feels tainted—what I thought was love now looks like a script of half-truths and manipulation. I keep replaying conversations, searching for the cracks I missed, the signs I ignored, the ways I was bent into doubting my own instincts. The hardest part is knowing there are pieces of truth buried in there, but they’re tangled with so many lies that making sense of it feels impossible. It leaves me questioning not just what happened, but myself—my trust and my judgment.

Grieving a breakup like this feels like standing over the grave of a life you thought you were building, only to realize it was never real in the way you believed. It isn’t just the end of love—it’s the hollow devastation of knowing the person you trusted with your heart was moving in shadows you couldn’t see. You replay conversations, memories, promises, and every single one now feels poisoned, stripped of the peace they once gave you. It’s like carrying the weight of two deaths at once—the death of the relationship itself, and the death of the future you were certain was waiting for you. 

And in that aftermath, you’re left to confront the rawest truth—you must start over, not just with your life, but with yourself, piecing together what’s real, what you can stand on, and how to move when everything you believed in has collapsed. All the little moments you thought were waiting for you, all the versions of yourself you thought you were becoming—they vanish overnight. And you’re left standing in the wreckage, staring at pieces that don’t make sense anymore.

Rebuilding sounds noble, but in reality it’s messy, exhausting, and overwhelming. Some days it feels like dragging yourself out of bed is the only victory you can claim. Other days, it’s like carrying the weight of a thousand unanswered questions: Who am I now? What do I want? How do I even begin again? There’s no clear path forward but you have to keep pushing yourself even when it feels impossible. 

And yet, even in the darkest hours, you can’t escape the fact that life doesn’t stop. The world keeps moving, even when you feel like yours has collapsed. So you stumble forward, slowly, painfully, trying to rebuild piece by piece. It doesn’t look graceful, and it doesn’t feel hopeful most of the time—but it’s real. It’s fucking survival.

It’s shocking how loud an empty house can be when your life is reduced to boxes and the only furniture you have is two nightstands and a desk to start over. The moment is sobering—surreal and impossible—like standing at the edge of everything you knew and not knowing where to even begin.

When you finally find the courage to start unpacking those boxes, the weight of it all hits—you’re forced to face the truth that this isn’t just some nightmare you’ll wake from. And in that moment, the part of you that’s been checked out, running on autopilot, is confronted with the reality you’ve been avoiding and has no choice but to begin accepting it.

Grief isn’t always about death—it can also be about losing someone to choices that shattered the life you built together. The cruelest part is still loving the person who hurt you the most. That love feels like a weight you can't shake, something lodged inside you no matter how hard you try to let it go. It consumes you, pulling you into a battle within yourself—your heart longing for the comfort of what once felt real, while your mind relentlessly replays the moment everything fell apart. In that struggle, you’re torn apart, mourning not just the person you lost, but the version of yourself who once believed love alone could hold it all together.

I’ve learned grief isn’t something you rush—it moves at its own pace. Some days it crushes you, other days it softens into a dull ache, but it never disappears. Healing from this kind of loss isn’t about erasing the pain—it’s about carrying it differently, loosening its grip little by little, and trusting that even the deepest wounds will someday scar over.

And then out of nowhere—a memory, a place, a song—hits like a wrecking ball, undoing what felt like progress. Healing isn’t a straight road; it’s a twisted one with brutal detours. Some days, survival itself is the only victory.

Grief is chaotic, unpredictable, relentless. It doesn’t follow rules or timelines. One moment you feel acceptance, the next you’re drowning in rage or sorrow. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready, and it doesn’t care if you’re exhausted. Some days you move forward; other days you collapse back into the dark. But that’s the truth of grief—raw, messy, and merciless. You don’t conquer it; you endure it. Piece by piece, day by day, in your own time.

Losing someone you love is shattering enough, but there’s another layer of pain when you realize the hurt didn’t just come from them—it came from someone you called a friend, too. It’s a double loss, a double grief. The person you trusted with your heart chose to break it, and the person you trusted with your friendship stood by and added to the wreckage. That kind of betrayal cuts from both sides—it leaves you questioning not only love, but loyalty, wondering how the people you let closest could be the ones to cause the deepest wounds.

I opened my life to Thad, stood by him when no one else would, and gave freely without ever asking for anything in return. I gave him a place to live, helped him with the move, supported him financially, and made sure he was taken care of . No one should have to carry the weight of the world alone, and sometimes the greatest kindness we can offer is simply standing beside someone so they know they’re not forgotten. What I offered in friendship and trust, he repaid with betrayal—calculated, deceptive, and entirely self-serving. It’s staggering how someone can take everything you give and twist it into wounds that never fully heal. In the end, Thad’s silence said more than any excuse ever could—silence was his only answer. Thad showed who he is, and people noticed—paying attention to the truth he tried to hide, seeing the real person he is.

A part of me loved Thad in a way I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand. I worried about him, felt fiercely protective of him, and always tried to advocate for him. I defended him, missed him when he wasn’t around, and needed to know he was safe—even when I was drowning in my own battles. He was on my mind often, and I cherished his presence, especially the sharp wit we shared, usually at Tyler’s expense. There was always something between us, something unspoken, and I never quite knew how to navigate it—especially through the lens of my own insecurities. But in the end, the reality was harsher than anything I could have imagined. What I thought was connection was nothing more than manipulation, and in giving so much of myself, I was taken advantage of, left broken in ways I’m still learning how to piece back together.

I hear the murmurs, the distorted version of the story they’re trying to spin—each detail bent to protect themselves from the distorted reality of their actions that can’t be justified. But I don’t need their performance to know what’s real. I’ve seen the truth for myself, lived it in the wreckage of their choices. No whispers, no twisted story, can erase the weight of truth. People aren’t blind—they see through the lies and deceptions, because actions always tell the truth no matter how carefully the words are spun.  Let them carry the weight of the lie they've built.

The hardest part is realizing I wasn’t worth the tough conversations, the effort to fight for us, or the work it takes to stay when things get hard. Walking away was easier than facing me, replacing me was easier than doing the work. It’s impossible to nurture what you have when you’re too busy chasing everything else. And that’s the choice he made—turning from me when they should have leaned in the most. That truth lingers like a weight, leaving me to question whether I ever truly mattered, or if I was only there until I became too much, once love stopped being effortless.

When you love someone, you show up—not just when it’s easy, not just when life feels light, but especially when the weight gets heavy. You stand with them in the mess, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it hurts, because commitment means staying present through the storms as much as the calm. Love isn’t proven in the effortless moments; it’s proven in the nights you sit through silence, the tears you wipe away, the battles you fight side by side. Life isn’t always grand gestures or perfect days—sometimes love is as simple, and as powerful, as showing up.

Showing up was never just a routine for me with you, Tyler—it was devotion. I chose to see the best in you, even when you gave me the worst. I carried the weight of your silence, endured the sting of your indifference, and still, I stayed. I forgave the things you never acknowledged, swallowed the hurtful words you never apologized for, and clung to the hope that a part of you was still good. I loved you in the places you refused to heal, thinking maybe my love could be enough to fix it. And that—showing up through the pain, through the damage, through the cracks you never bothered to mend—that was my love. Unwavering. Steadfast. A kind of faith you may never comprehend.

I’ve learned that integrity is what gives real meaning to life—it shapes not just what we say, but how we live. Morals aren’t about the beliefs we claim, but the choices we make each day. In the end, words can fade, but actions carry the weight. They reveal who we truly are without us ever needing to explain it.

I always saw myself as someone who complimented Tyler, the steady presence beside a partner who was accomplished, charismatic, and lit up every room he walked into. Where he shined with boldness and charm, I grounded us with quiet strength, support, and devotion. I took pride in being the balance—the one who made sure the details were cared for, the one who held things together behind the scenes while he drew the spotlight. I believed we were a team, two halves creating something whole, each of us filling the spaces the other could not. To me, that was love: not competition, but completion.

Looking back now, I see I was never just the one who complimented Tyler—I was the person who stayed connected, who built bridges and nurtured people with genuine compassion. I was rising in my own career, carving out a path defined by my own goals and ambitions, and I had created a community rooted in love and support. I wasn’t simply standing in someone else’s shadow; I was standing whole on my own, with strength that was entirely mine. And even when I doubted it, others saw it clearly—they believed in me, leaned on me, and recognized I was the one holding so much together.

I was deeply moved by how many of his people reached out—family, former partners, close friends, even colleagues. Their compassion caught me off guard, each of them offering kindness I never expected and sharing pieces of their own stories along the way. What could have felt unbearably lonely instead became a reminder that I wasn’t walking through it by myself. In their words, I found compassion, understanding, and the reminder that even in the darkest moments, people can show up in the most unexpected and meaningful ways.

Lately, I’ve started to see Tyler differently. At first, I thought his confidence was magnetic—how he could command any room and slip seamlessly into any crowd. I admired it, and thought it was a gift. But now I realize it wasn’t confidence at all—it was arrogance. He prided himself on being a chameleon, on fitting in everywhere. But if you’re always everything to everyone, who are you really? Looking back, it wasn’t about connection—it was about deception. He wasn’t just fooling others, he was fooling me. And the hardest part is realizing maybe I didn’t know who he ever really was.

Looking at it now, I can see how layered the manipulations really were—every word delivered with calculated precision, every situation shaped to bend in their favor. What I once mistook for care or sincerity was nothing more than strategy, selfish and self-serving at its core, designed to keep me off balance while fueling his own needs. The conversations, the silences, the gestures—they weren’t random, they were tools. And in the end, it was never about us at all, only about him and getting exactly what he wanted, no matter the cost.

I’ve come to realize that I fell for a version of him that never truly existed. I focused on the good in him, and out of my own naivety, I filled in the blanks with who I imagined him to be. That’s the man I loved—the one I built in my mind. But in truth, he was a chameleon, proud of how easily he could change, always wearing whatever mask the situation called for. He even bragged about it, as though deception was a mark of strength. And while I see now that I should have recognized it sooner, the real pain comes from understanding how much of myself I gave to someone who I truly didn’t know. He was always performing, always curating an image to protect his reputation, while behind the curtain the betrayals stacked higher and higher. I see now how he thrived on control—twisting stories, deflecting blame, making me question myself—until I no longer trusted my own instincts. 

Sometimes you have to accept the hard truth that you may never fully know who someone really is, no matter how close they once felt. The wounds they leave can cut deep, but you must do the work to heal them. Moving forward is the only way to reclaim your peace, and in time, life has a way of giving people exactly what they’ve earned—good or bad.

People often joked that Tyler and I were like an old married couple long before we ever started dating. Our foundation was friendship—something we both cherished and swore we’d always protect. When his feelings for me began to surface, I was hesitant, unsure if stepping across that line would change what we had. But time, closeness, and the pull between us slowly opened my heart. I wanted to enter this relationship differently than I ever had before—laying bare our wounds, our traumas, and setting real expectations for what love between us could be. My love for him was something I always described as comforting. It wasn’t flashy or overwhelming, but steady, gentle, and safe. And in that safety, I felt like I had finally found something real. In the end, I fell in love with my best friend—and for a time, that felt like the greatest gift in life I could ever have.

In the end, the foundation of friendship I trusted so deeply crumbled beneath me—something I had been so sure was strong enough to hold us through anything. What I believed to be unshakable turned fragile overnight. The very scars I had shared in vulnerability, the pieces of my past I thought were safe in his hands, were twisted into weapons and used with a precision that cut straight through me. It was like being gutted by my own history, turned against myself in ways I couldn’t have prepared for. There is a special kind of cruelty in realizing that the parts of you that took the most courage to reveal became the exact tools used to break you. The hands that broke me were the ones I always believed would protect me.

Over time, it became clear to me that he was never in it for the long haul. No matter what we tried to build, and we had such a beautiful life, it was never going to be enough—he always had to be chasing something different, something he convinced himself was better. Whether it was material gain, financial advantage, or the next fleeting sexual encounter, his attention was always pulled away from what truly mattered. He even bragged about cheating on previous partners, as if betrayal were something to boast about instead of something to be ashamed of. And even when we got engaged—when he asked me to marry him—I can’t help but now believe it was more about meeting social expectations and doing what he thought was customary, rather than a genuine desire to continue building a life together. That constant pursuit left real damage, even if it took me a long time to fully recognize it. What made it even harder was his refusal to see the pattern for what it was—an addiction he wouldn’t face and a lack of accountability he never shouldered. Putting these words together has been a slow process, each sentence reflecting the weight of my own blindness and trying to reconcile his decisions

Tyler’s choices weren’t careless—they were calculated to hurt, to cut deep, and to leave scars he can’t take back. He chose impulsive cruelty, and in doing so, he tore through people who trusted him and left damage he’ll never be able to undo. He doesn’t get to downplay the truth or dodge accountability—he defined himself by the pain he caused. And the reality is this: people see him for who he is now, and many will never stand beside him again.

There comes a point when you have to see just how selfish someone can be—so warped by ego that their judgment is nothing more than delusion. They twist reality to suit themselves, rewriting the story until they’re the hero and everyone else is collateral damage. And you can’t help but ask—what kind of person inflicts that much pain, leaves that much wreckage, and still walks away convinced they’ve done nothing wrong? That isn’t ignorance—it’s calculated cowardice. It’s the arrogance of someone who would rather live in a lie than face the truth of who they really are.

Everyone says I’m better off, that happiness is waiting for me, that I’m strong and worthy of more than this. Maybe someday I’ll see it, but right now those words feel empty, like they’re meant for someone else. Their hope feels distant, out of reach, while I’m still here—stuck in the wreckage, bleeding from wounds they can’t see.

But even in the wounds of betrayal, there is a quiet kind of hope. Each painful step forward is proof that you’re still here, still fighting. The pieces of your old life may never fit again, but they can become the foundation of something new—something built from strength, resilience, and the possibility of a future you never imagined, but still deserves love and light.

I know I wasn’t a perfect partner, and that truth haunts me. In the silence, I replay all the moments I could have done better—the times I shut down instead of opening up, the ways I let my own flaws bleed into the relationship, the love I sometimes failed to show in the ways it was needed most. It’s a bitter kind of self-reckoning, because even while I carry the weight of betrayal, I can’t escape the weight of my own mistakes. I can’t rewrite the past, and that realization gnaws at me. All I can do now is live with the knowledge that my shortcomings left their mark too.

Before I left what had been our home, Tyler said, “You’ll disappear and isolate—because that’s what you do.” He wasn’t wrong that it was my instinct; everything felt impossible, overwhelming, the pain immeasurable. But in the end, it pushed me to do the opposite. Instead of vanishing, I showed up, I stood my ground, I reached out, and I let people in—and that choice changed me more than he ever could have imagined.

This breakup taught me that my voice is not up for negotiation. I refuse to surrender my own agency. I won’t stay quiet to protect someone else’s comfort, and I won’t let my story be diluted down into something it’s not. Standing my ground means speaking the truth. I can’t change what happened, but I can own my side of it fully, and that’s where my strength and healing begins.

Tyler, I’ve come to accept the choices you made, no matter how difficult it’s been to accept and  process. You’ve shown me who you truly are through your actions, and while I once held on to a different vision, the reality has become clear. The decisions you made are yours to live with, not mine. They don’t define me or my worth. What you chose to do speaks more about you than it does about me. And though it’s painful, I’ve realized I’m not responsible for the consequences of your actions. I owe you nothing—  I’m confident that, maybe not now, may not in near future,  but one day, you’ll look back and realize the weight of how you handled things.

There are times in life that feel unbearably heavy, where the path ahead seems unclear and the weight of it all feels impossible to carry. I’m writing one of those chapters. But what I didn’t expect was so many of you would show up- with phone calls that never stopped, texts that reminded me I wasn’t alone, keys pressed into my hand, doors opened, coffee brewed, and shoulders to lean on when mine gave out.

It’s in those vulnerable moments, when you feel like you have nothing left to give, that you realize how powerful it can be to let people in. Vulnerability is something I’ve always avoided—something I thought made me weak or exposed. But I’ve learned it isn't a weakness at all. There’s real power behind it.

Letting myself break created space for others to step in. It allowed love, support, and grace to pour through in ways I never expected. It’s humbling to be carried when you thought you had to stand on your own. And as overwhelming as it all feels—the grief, the loss, the rebuilding—there’s also a strange kind of beauty in it. Because it’s in those moments of letting go that you realize you were never really alone.

To those closest to me—thank you. In the moments when I felt completely and utterly fucking broken, you became the hands that held me together. You reminded me that even in the heaviest darkness, I am not alone. Your love, your patience, and your unwavering presence carried me when I had nothing left to give. That kind of grace leaves an impression I will never forget, and I carry it with me as proof of how powerful true unconditional love,  kindness, and friendship can be.

I knew I had amazing people in my life, but I am humbled in a way I’ve never felt before. This heavy chapter is still being written, and some days it still feels unbearable. But even in the middle of all this, I’ve been reminded again and again of the good and the hope that exists in the people around me. Thank you—from the bottom of my heart—for carrying me when I couldn’t carry myself, for showing up when I didn’t even know how to ask. Not only did you show up—you kept showing up. Steady. Persistent. Refusing to let me falter when I felt like I might.

During this process, it feels like an endless war inside yourself, a battle that shifts by the hour. One moment you’re drowning in grief, mourning the life you thought you had and the future you believed was waiting for you. The next, rage takes over—raw, consuming anger at him for what he did, and at yourself for letting it happen, for ignoring the signs, for loving so blindly. You stand in front of the mirror and it’s like staring at a stranger, questioning everything you thought you knew about who you were and what you were worth. The memories you clung to feel poisoned, the promises now hollow, and you’re left asking if any of it was real at all. It’s a cycle that tears you apart—grief pulling you under, anger setting you ablaze, doubt stripping you bare—until you’re forced to face the brutal truth: the person you have to reconcile with now is yourself.

Maybe I’m messy, and maybe I shouldn’t be spilling all of this out into the open. But as my therapist tells me, fuck his feelings—he never cared about yours. Scream from every mountain top if you have to to heal. He forfeited the right to dictate how you heal what he broke. And she’s right. I held up his reputation and his comfort like it mattered more than me, all while I was breaking into pieces. So here I am, writing it anyway, because pretending it didn’t happen only keeps the wound alive. Maybe these words are just part of my own healing, maybe they’re just me trying to make sense of the wreckage. Or maybe, one day, they’ll be a survival guide for someone else who feels just as broken and alone.

My advice? Buck up. This is going to hurt—probably worse than you can imagine. The pain will hit in ways you didn’t think were possible, both emotionally and physically. You’ll have to dig deeper than you ever have, confront parts of yourself you’ve avoided, and face truths you never thought you’d meet. Lean on your people—they’ll show up for you in ways that will surprise you. Don’t turn away from help, and don’t be ashamed of taking care of your mental health. Life can be brutally unfair, and accepting that reality is one of the hardest lessons any of us face. You’ll look in the mirror and see things you don’t like—but that’s part of the work. Stay accountable. And even on the darkest days, remember: you won’t stay there forever. You will be OK. 

Don’t waste yourself chasing answers to questions that will never make sense. Some choices are born from weakness and selfishness, and no amount of searching will ever bring clarity. A coward will never give you closure; it would demand honesty and courage they don’t have. What you’re left with is silence where there should have been truth. But closure doesn’t come from them—it comes from you. You build it by facing reality head-on, by refusing to let someone else’s lack of character decide the ending of your story. And in that act of creating your own closure, you reclaim your strength, and the healing begins

The anger will come, and when it does, it won’t be small—it will be sharp, consuming, and heavier than you expect. It will sit in your chest and threaten to spill out in ways that could easily bring out the worst in you. But you can’t let it win that way. Don’t let it poison you or drag you into becoming someone you don’t recognize. Instead, let it become your fuel. Let it push you to rise higher, to fight harder for yourself, to rebuild in a way that proves you cannot be broken. Channel it into your growth, into your strength, into every step forward that carries you further from the pain. Let it direct you, sharpen you, and remind you that even in the ashes of everything you lost, you have the power to shape what comes next.

And here’s the hardest part: love yourself. It sounds simple, but it’s terrifying. Giving yourself grace, forgiving your own mistakes, is harder than it should be. You’ll feel undeserving of it some days, like you’re too broken to be kind to yourself. But you are deserving. Even when it feels like you’re falling apart, remind yourself that you’re human, that healing is a process, and that you don’t need to have it all figured out. Time will feel cruel but you need it. It’s okay to take life five seconds at a time if that’s all you can handle. Loving yourself through this will be the hardest, but most necessary thing you’ll do.

And remember—your people love you. They might not always know the right way to express it, or even have the perfect words, but they’re cheering you on, even when it feels like you're on your own. Sometimes, they’re just waiting for you to lean on them, unsure of how to approach without overstepping. They care. They may not always get it right, but they’re there, they see your pain, and they want to see you through. Reach out, be clear, tell them what you need, and they’ll show up.

Healing isn’t something that just happens—it’s work. It’s waking up every day and choosing not to stay stuck, even when it would be easier to numb it or run from it. It’s facing the hard truths, sitting with the pain, and slowly teaching yourself how to let go. Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting or pretending it didn’t matter—it means honoring what was, learning from it, and then taking deliberate steps toward a future that isn’t defined by the pain. It’s exhausting, messy, and often very thankless, but it’s also the only way to reclaim your sense of self. You have to press forward and trust the process. At some point, you come to understand that no one’s coming to save you—it’s your responsibility to dig deep, rise up, and keep pushing forward, even when it feels impossible. 

You’re going to be okay - I promise.