One year ago, I was finalizing plans for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Fredericksburg, Texas. A total solar eclipse was upon us. Magic was in the air—and so was love.

NASA explains that a solar eclipse occurs when the Moon passes between the Sun and Earth, casting the Moon’s shadow on Earth. This only happens occasionally because the Moon doesn’t orbit in the exact same plane as the Sun and Earth do. Two things need to occur at once for you to see a solar eclipse: the Sun, Moon, and Earth need to be in a straight line, with the Moon between the Sun and Earth—and you must be standing in the right spot on Earth to see it.

One year ago, it felt like everything had aligned—the stars and all.

I had matured enough to walk through life with a gentle and open heart, and this incredibly giving, caring man—whom God created—entered my stratosphere at just the right time.

But the thing about alignment, as I learned on April 8, 2024—and again two months later—is that it’s fleeting. And although my head understood what happened, my heart did not.

Over the course of several months in 2024, a new friendship evolved into a budding romance. Initially, I wasn’t very interested. He was persistent, texting photos of frosty cocktails on Sunday afternoons and messaging updates about his daily life. Laundry. Chores. Car washes. Stats on his favorite sports teams.

Text messages turned into phone calls—those hours-long conversations that remind you of junior high or high school when all you could do was talk on the phone.

“What’s your end game here?” I remember boldly asking one evening.

He kindly explained that he enjoyed talking to me. Our conversations touched on so many topics—jokes, deep thoughts, and the mindless, flirtatious banter that leads to butterflies. Quality time, he shared, was his love language.

The death of one of his parents early in our relationship carved a proverbial fork in the road—should I back off or lean in?

I leaned in. Because at the root of our relationship was friendship, and as his friend, I knew I wanted to walk alongside him—holding space for his grief and his heart. He was so appreciative, so loving, so present in our time together. Words of affirmation, I told him, is my love language.

A late-night trip to Galveston to sit and listen to the waves crash on the shore. A hike through Sam Houston State Park to bask in the beauty of nature. Frosty cocktails on a Saturday afternoon. Cozy nights spent laughing at Ben Stiller’s best work. Slowly, like the Sun and Moon moving into alignment, he and I did too.

I didn’t have expectations for us. Like the Sun warming Houston on a cool spring day, I just wanted to soak him in—his company, his laugh, his rants about sports and the superiority of Sonos speakers. As I approached my 40th birthday, I was truly delighted to enjoy a partner who I also considered a wonderful friend.

Two days before my birthday, we went dark. An eclipse of sorts.

My car battery had died. I needed a boost, and he eventually offered to come help.

If you’ve ever experienced totality during a solar eclipse, you know the strange feeling. Day becomes night. Birds go silent. People hold their breath and squint toward the Sun behind protective glasses in a desperate effort to get a clear view.

That’s what it felt like—standing there while my battery was replaced. Weird. Off. Something wasn’t right.

The journalist in me had to ask—kindly, and with grace.

“Is everything okay?”

When I reflect on that conversation, I like to think I did my very best to create and nurture trust between us. No judgment. No criticism. Just love.

What poured out of him was an honest reflection of a man who missed his parent. Grief doesn’t follow a timeline or meet a deadline, and it doesn’t dilute by the day. Grief, I believe, is how we measure the love we have for those we hold dear. And boy, did he love his parent.

Over the days that followed, we talked. We agreed he needed space—and space I could give. I loved him. I respected him and I could show up for him by creating distance.

Giving space is hard. In this particular case, it ranks among the Top 5 most selfless things I’ve ever done. My heart missed him. My mind thought of him. In my dreams, my subconscious ran wild.

Because of our lives, our paths continued to cross. But like night and day, the space he needed didn’t allow for anything beyond a brief overlap, a dawn or dusk.

I prayed for him. I prayed for me. I prayed for us. I prayed for grace and mercy. I prayed to surrender the selfish urge to call or text. I worked through my feelings in therapy. I navigated my emotions with my friends. I knew, logically, I’d be okay. But the heart of the matter is—it hurt. It still hurts.

As time passed, the check-ins faded. I realized, for the first time, that he actually had a voicemail prompt. I reconnected with that old anxiety from my 30s—the kind that comes from texting and waiting… wanting to see text bubbles that never appear.

And eventually, like standing beneath the Sun and the Moon in Fredericksburg last April, I realized our relationship—our friendship—had come and gone.

That realization stings as my own grief set in.

Knowing that quality time—our shared act of love—no longer exists between us cuts deep. But grief, is a measure of just how much we loved those important to us.

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit I still try. A photo of Bucatini boiling on the stove. A question about a streaming show. A thought about sports. A ping from my phone over to his in an attempt to reconnect two friends. Every once in a while, I’ll get a reply. But today, he and I have gone our separate ways.

Still, my heart is open. My faith in God is strong.

Eventually, the Sun and Moon will meet again.

And somewhere along the horizon, another beautiful connection might be waiting.