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To all the reasons why there's always space for him in me.  Not because of some glimpse of us. Not because some memory slipped through. It's just because I missed what it felt like to keep him close. I traced the places we passed. Replayed the little habits, held again our loud, biggest shared dreams.  I pulled out the feeling  of meeting him for the first time, and every time after that. The memories came not in order. As if they, too, had been waiting to be felt again.  His presence.  The way he gave me time. His laughter. The one that melts everything numbed. The one I swore I would keep safe for as long as I could. So today, I remembered him fully. Not to make sense of why. Not to search for lessons in the loss. Not to ask what went wrong.  I just let myself remember him. And the way he made me fall again, and again, and again, and again. And as much as I've tried to accept what is, I still find it easier to explain why it was only ever him.

I miss him more in all the places we never got to go. In the taste of something new he’ll never ask about. In the songs he’ll never hear, even though I know he would’ve loved them. I remember him in every little update I can’t send anymore. How the world is shifting. How I’m changing with it. How I lost reality I never lived. It would be easier if he only existed in the past. If missing him meant sorting through our finished frames until it ran out. But I miss him more from what was never captured. On the other side of the life we almost had, I still miss us there.

I wasn’t crying before.

That part of my life. It no longer feels like mine. Not fully. Not in the way memories usually do. Like something I woke from but still remember in my body. Like something I recall but no longer exists. I remember the feeling. I remember how loud it was in my chest. But when I try to speak it, I wouldn’t know who to tell— not without it sounding like fiction. So I keep it locked in the farthest part of my mind. A room with no space and no light. A place where I store what I can’t afford to feel again. I don’t bother visiting it. I don’t call it by name. But it happened. It was mine. It was real. As real as anything I live now. And yet, now it feels too far to belong to me. Too vivid to be a lie. Too distant to still be true. A misplaced memory and outlier in my timeline. Too real. Too strange. Too unreal for something I once swore was mine.

Not for anything, definitely not for anyone. So when someone stayed, I held on like it was the only way to choose myself. Because in their choosing, I finally found a way to silence the part of me that always asked: what made me a bad choice? Even if all I ever offered was a version of me still waiting to be rescued from herself. You see. Letting go felt too brutal. Too empty. Too much silence to carry alone. What do you hold when you stop holding the only thing you know how to hold on to? So I stayed because I was terrified of what I’d find without them. Or maybe I was just tired. Of being disappointed in who I couldn’t be. And too tired to hate myself all over again. That’s why it took so long to finally stop. But hey, am all good today.

Not really. Just something unplanned, that turned out to be a beginning. This time, I freed myself from the duty of trying. From the duty to hold, to understand, to accept, question, answer, and wait for something that never once met me halfway. And for the first time in months after everything fell apart, I felt tired in a way that didn’t scare me. Like my body was finally allowed to stop bracing for impact. The fog isn’t gone. But it’s thinning. And though the way out is still sunless, I can feel it. I can feel that there is a way out. Yes, it’s the irony that stings. And the hypocrisy that burns. That I gave so much grace to everything. Except for myself. That I kept waiting to feel like I was worth staying for. When it was always me I kept abandoning. I don’t know how long this will take. How much of me I’ll have to rebuild. Or how many days will still taste like survival. But for now, this is enough. More than enough. Tomorrow can come when it does. Yesterday can stay where it bel...

Because time doesn’t grieve. It won’t move any faster, no matter how much I beg it to. It just moves steadily and unbothered. Not slow enough to let me hold what’s already gone. Not fast enough to help me forget you were ever here. Maybe time isn’t meant to help. Perhaps it’s just here to keep going, even when we can’t. And maybe that’s what makes it so hard. To live in a world where nothing pauses for what broke. Where everything continues, and we didn’t. I want to believe our hearts will stretch just enough to hold what hurt without breaking. That somehow, in this slow, heartless passing, we’ll still find something gentle to hold on to. I hope so. Even now. I still hope so.

I feel like I’m losing something a little more every day. On some nights, when I can’t sleep, it creeps in quietly. The fear. The more time passes, the further everything drifts, the closer I feel to losing it again. Even when there’s nothing left. I don’t know why letting go of something that isn’t here still feels like a risk. Maybe I’m scared that I’ll keep doing this. Or that I’m the reason this keeps repeating. I’m scared of my own patterns. Scared of the kind of future I can’t even picture. I don’t know what’s supposed to be there anymore. And so I sit in the dark. Not knowing what to pray for. The other nights, I try to shut myself up. Stop. Enough. You’re being too much again. Is this the kind of feeling that should’ve never been allowed to speak? Because my head hurts from fighting, thinking, judging, listening, blaming, trying to be kind to myself, in circles. All at once.

Maybe I only loved the possibility of being loved by you. And maybe it felt so real because I was the one pouring all this longing into someone who never asked to be held that way. They say, maybe I wasn’t loving you. Maybe I was begging myself to feel worthy through you. They say, it wasn’t love if it started from the wrong why . That maybe I wasn’t loving. I was seeking. I wanted to win you just once more, so I could rewrite all the versions of myself I never knew how to forgive. That I wanted your yes to undo all my no’s. That I needed you to make it make sense. But if it wasn’t real, then why do I still feel it in the deepest parts of my body? Why do I still flinch at the thought of someone else knowing your quiet? Why does it still feel like I’m leaving something I never meant to lose? I keep asking. Is it you I miss, or the story I wrote around you? Am I grieving you, or the person I thought I could become when I loved you? I don’t know how to tell the difference. But if I’m stil...

Patterns. Trauma. Boundaries. The art of staying without disappearing. But the more I see the harder it gets to forgive myself for not knowing sooner. Because now, I expect more from me. Like I should’ve known how to hold it all before it broke. Like I should’ve saved us from who we didn’t know we were becoming. And I can hear that small voice inside beggingly, asking me why love still feels like trying all alone? But even hearing that, makes me feel like I’ll never be enough. Because I know happiness is mine to build. So is my safety. So is my healing. So is love. But mantras don’t mute the pain. And knowing doesn’t mean you know how to stop digging the very hole you keep trying to crawl out of. I keep learning. I keep almost falling. I feel like walking a tightrope. Standing steady, with cliffs waiting on both sides. And maybe that’s the hardest part. That even now, I still don’t know how to stop breaking under the weight of trying. I still don’t know how to save myself from me.

There were too many things that went wrong. Or maybe, they weren’t even mistakes. Just questions with answers too big for two people in love to carry. They say love has its logic. That psychology could explain why you and I were always almost. That science could map the patterns of why we never aligned. That faith might’ve told us how to stay, if only we’d listened. But none of it made it any easier. Maybe it could’ve been different if I had understood more, sooner. If I had known how to hold you without holding you back, and how to love you without losing myself. Maybe then, we wouldn’t have fallen through all the cracks. But I didn’t. And now, all I can do is wake up each day trying to be better than I was when I still had you. I want to believe there’s wisdom  in what we couldn’t carry.  That He doesn’t give a love this deep without reason. And that we’ll meet the best of His plan. But didn’t this feeling, too, exist with His permission? Then, is there a maybe that we could...