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Goodbye is a foreign word.

Ten years passed and infinite years lived in hope. I wonder, how does spelling it out come so easily to you?



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Maybe someday, or next week, I’ll finally forget you.

Because today, I still love you. Maybe it’s not even you anymore, but the version of you I kept safe in my head. Maybe that’s why the feeling still stays like they haven't heard the news. Because I keep thinking. Maybe you were just as lost, and just as hurt. That maybe the only reason we bled was because we didn’t know how else to hold our pain. And so the words we said only sounded like weapons. I keep thinking that someday, you’ll find answers you haven’t yet found the words for. And I once wondered: is it love when we believe in it, or is it love when we accept what it never was? I still don’t know. But I do know this: I still check in on you. Still care about things you won’t share. Still wonder about how your heart is doing today. So maybe not now. Because now, you still live somewhere in me. Even when you’ve long been gone. And maybe not yet. Because there are things I still want to write. Yours, I still want to hold space for. And this one thing I still want to say: I still...
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I live alone, but I never feel lonely.

Because for as long as I can remember, he never left me by myself. Not even once. He always made sure to treat me gently, to care for my needs, completely. He never raised his voice. Never dismissed my hand. He took me to beautiful places, and to the ordinary ones that meant just as much. He stayed by my side. And when he couldn’t, he always found his way back to me. He remembered every little thing about me, and made sure I’d always say, “I’m happy.”  He was there. He always was. And I really am happy. But it was me who couldn’t believe he was mine. It was me who couldn’t stop thinking he’d leave someday. So I kept proving myself. Kept trying, hiding, shrinking. I lost myself, trying to prove my love for him. When all I ever needed was to love him back. I brought the wounds I never truly faced, believing that being with him could make everything easier. And it was. But the untreated, unaddressed ache became a heartless resistance, one thing he never, ever deserved. And...
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Funny how I never really imagined the ending wouldn’t be me.

The first time we broke up, I remember saying— I would never be able to let him go if the person next to him wasn’t me. It sounds like something you’d say in the middle of a quiet obsession. I know that now. But at the time, being with him felt like home. And losing him, felt like losing the only place I could return to. I didn’t see then. Some part of that “home” was built from how he showed up when I was far from my family, and far from my own self. Even when we ended, I still knew I’d meet him again someday. Though now I wonder. Was that knowing, a memory, a wish, or just a prayer in disguise? And when I did meet him again, and then lose him again, I found myself asking: Was loving him something I knew, something I wanted, or something I was still praying for? Was I in love with him, or just with the idea of being with him? Isn’t wanting to be with someone a form of love, too? Why, then, could I never picture a life without him, even if it terrified me while...
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