I’m sitting in this quiet little house in Saint-Éloi, Quebec, a village of 400 people, far from my old life in Winnipeg, staring at a candle flickering on the table, its light dancing like it’s trying to tell me something. I’m 45, and after that awful Valentine’s Day—Étienne’s aggression at the restaurant, humiliating me over a stupid chicken dish, his cruel words slicing through me—I’ve been searching for something, anything, to make sense of this ache in my chest. I moved here for him, for love, only to find myself crying in my car, realizing I don’t deserve his anger, his coldness, the way he’s shut me out.
The loneliness tonight is heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I moved here from Winnipeg, chasing love with Étienne, that charming Frenchman I met online, whose smile once felt like a promise of forever. But after that awful Valentine’s Day—his aggression at the restaurant, humiliating me over a simple chicken dish, his cruel words cutting me down—I’ve been unraveling. I thought I’d find connection here, but instead, I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been.
The silence in this house is deafening. Étienne’s out there, probably in his workshop, oblivious to the way his jealousy, his coldness, his outbursts have left me feeling like a stranger in my own life. I gave up my job, my friends, my city for him, and now I’m in this tiny village where the closest thing to company is the wind rattling the windows. I tried to fill the void, you know? I stumbled across this YouTube podcast about talking to angels, and it sounded so silly, but I was desperate for something to hold onto. I signed up for a class, spent days learning how to connect with angels, recognize their signs, ask for guidance. I’d sit in this very room, whispering to the air, looking for feathers or numbers like 11:11, hoping for a nudge that I’m not alone. And sometimes, I’d feel it—a random song on the radio, a kind word from a neighbor, like maybe something out there was listening.
But tonight, even that feels far away. The loneliness creeps in, whispering that I’ve made a mistake, that I ignored the signs—Étienne’s possessiveness over my phone, the way we have nothing in common, his aggressive words that leave me small. I keep thinking about that neighbor who said, “You’re stronger than you think,” and I want to believe it was a sign, but right now, I just feel fragile. I don’t deserve this—to be humiliated, to be unloved in a place I uprooted my life for. I’ve been paying attention to every red flag, every moment my intuition screamed, “This isn’t right,” but I stayed, hoping I could fix it, fix us.
Sitting here, the candle I lit for my angel meditations flickering, I’m starting to see it clearly: I can’t keep living for a man who doesn’t see me. This loneliness, it’s not just about being alone—it’s about losing myself in this move, in this relationship. I don’t know if it’s angels or just my own heart talking, but I’m hearing it now: I deserve more. I deserve a life where I’m not crying alone on a Sunday night, wondering why I’m not enough. Maybe the sign I’ve been looking for is this feeling, this clarity that I can’t stay in a place that makes me feel so small. I’m scared—terrified, really—of what leaving means, of starting over at 45. But as the clock ticks past 11, I’m whispering to the angels, or to myself, for the courage to walk away, to find a home where loneliness doesn’t win.