So, the divorce is final. FINALLY final. Fifteen years... just like that. Blink and it’s gone, all paper and a judge’s signature. And now, I’m supposed to start over. Figure things out. Find myself, or whatever cliché they’re pushing these days. Except the "me" I thought I was? Yeah, that person was apparently a carefully constructed avatar designed solely for *him*. It hit me last week. I was looking for something to watch – something light, easy. Scrolled through every streaming service. Nothing appealed. Nothing. And then it clicked: every single show, every movie I’ve watched for the past decade and a half, was something he liked. Or something I pretended to like because he liked it. Action movies? Fantasy epics? Nope. Not me. Never me. I actually like those quirky indie dramas, the ones with ambiguous endings that he’d always complain about... "What was the point of that?" he’d say, rolling his eyes. The point was the *feeling*, the quiet observation, the subtle beauty. But I stopped watching them. Because he didn’t like them. And it’s not just TV. It’s everything. The coffee I drink – black, no sugar, because he thought milk and sugar was "weak." The music I listen to – all those obscure prog-rock bands he was so obsessed with. My clothes – muted colors, sensible styles, nothing that would draw too much attention... or upset his delicate sensibilities, I guess. My supposed hobbies? Hiking. Camping. Cycling. All things he loved, things I did with him, because what else was there to do? I never actually loved them. The wind on my face, the sore muscles, the dirt under my nails... just something to fill the time. And now? Now I just feel hollow. Utterly, completely hollow. I’m freelancing, you know? Copywriting gigs, social media management for small businesses. Whatever I can get. No benefits, no steady paycheck. Just the hustle. Every invoice, every payment feels like a victory and a terror all at once. Like, I’m making it. But I’m also completely alone, adrift in this tiny, overpriced apartment I can barely afford, surrounded by furniture I chose because it "matched his aesthetic." Everything just screams *him*. I bought a bright blue velvet armchair the other day, just to spite him. It clashes horribly with everything else. And honestly? I don’t even like it that much. It just... felt like something I was *supposed* to do. Reclaim my space. Reclaim myself. But what if there’s nothing to reclaim? I spent my entire adult life building a persona around someone else. Someone who didn't even *see* me, just a reflection of his own preferences. And the worst part? The ABSOLUTE worst part? I don’t even know what *my* preferences are anymore. What do I like? What do I hate? What makes me happy, truly happy, when he's not around to approve or disapprove? I’m 27, and I feel like I’m starting from zero. No, less than zero. I’m starting from a deficit, a negative number, having to unlearn everything before I can even begin to learn anything new. It’s infuriating. I want to scream. At him. At myself. At the universe for letting me be so monumentally STUPID. I just want to know who I am. Is that too much to ask?