The Good and Evil Project

As much as I don’t want to admit it, I think she really did love me. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not in the way I needed—but in her own way, at some point, it was real. Because you don’t imagine things like that out of nothing. The life we talked about…That wasn’t random. The farm. The kids. The ducks, the chickens. The quiet mornings. The loud afternoons. The kind of life you don’t just casually bring up—you see it. And I think she saw it too. At least for a while.

The hard part isn’t accepting that it’s over. The hard part is not knowing what it was supposed to be. You start asking questions you’ll never get answers to. Would she have said yes? Would we have made it? Was there ever a version of this where it worked? And you sit with that. Because there’s no one left to ask. So, your mind fills in the blanks. You wonder how she’s doing now. If she’s already trying to move on. If she’s trying to forget. And then you catch yourself thinking something you didn’t expect—After everything…you’d still choose her. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense.

Because you also remember what it felt like when things weren’t right. You remember the tension. The confusion. The moments where peace disappeared, and you couldn’t figure out how to get it back. And that’s where it becomes complicated. Because both things are true. You felt peace with her. And you felt lost with her. At the same time. And eventually… that catches up to you.

You start trying to fix it. Not out of control. Not out of ego. Out of fear. Fear that she didn’t see her own worth. Fear that she pushed away the very things she deserved. Fear that if you didn’t step in, no one would. So, you try. You explain yourself. You reach out. You choose your words carefully. And somehow—it still doesn’t land. What you meant as care… feels like pressure. What you meant as honesty… feels like criticism. And slowly, you realize something you don’t want to accept: You can’t help someone who isn’t ready to be helped. No matter how much you love them.

You reach out—and your hand gets pushed away. You try again—and it happens again. And after a while, you stop asking, “What else can I do?” And you start asking, “Is there anything left I can do at all?” That’s a difficult place to sit. Because you don’t feel like you gave up. You feel like you ran out. Even the decisions you made—the ones you’re not proud of, the ones that still weigh on you—they didn’t come from a place of malice. They came from desperation. From not knowing how else to protect someone you cared about. And the hardest part? Knowing that it still wasn’t enough. Maybe it was never going to be.

Two people can meet at the right time emotionally…and still be in the wrong place internally. That’s what no one tells you. Connection isn’t the problem. Readiness is. You can feel something real. You can build something meaningful. And it can still fall apart—
not because it wasn’t love, but because neither of you were fully healed. And that’s not easy to accept. Because it means there’s no villain. Just two people… trying.

When you reach that point—when there’s nothing left to say, nothing left to fix—you’re left with one place to go. You pray. Not because it’s your last option—but because it’s the only place that offers peace without conditions. You stop asking, “Why did this happen?” And you start asking, “What am I supposed to learn from it?” Because God already knows how this story ends. You don’t. And that’s where faith comes in.

Because free will gives you choices…but faith gives you direction. And maybe—if it was real, if it was meant to last—God will bring it back when the timing is right. Maybe He won’t. And that’s the part you have to let go of. Because right now, this isn’t about rebuilding something together. It’s about rebuilding yourself. You don’t need someone else to fix what’s broken in you. You don’t need someone else to restore what you’ve lost. You need to learn how to stand on your own again. To take care of your own life. Your own peace. Your own growth. Because when your foundation is strong—everything else becomes clearer.

And if someone comes back into your life one day, they won’t be there to complete you. They’ll be there to walk beside you. Until then—You tend your own garden. You rebuild what was neglected. You strengthen what was weak. You grow something that doesn’t depend on anyone else to survive. So that one day—whether it’s her or someone else— They don’t see something broken. They see something whole.

My name is Brad Alan. And I will survive this broken heart.