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I think this is the first time I’m not trying to erase you.

Not like the first.

When everything shattered,
and I let someone else
carry what I didn’t know how to hold.
Even if I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Not like the second.

When I still believed
that loving harder
might fix what was already broken.

That if I gave more,
you’d come back whole.

Not because I’ve healed, too.
Definitely not because it stopped hurting.

But because even forgetting
started to feel like pretending.

This isn’t the first time I’ve lost you.
But I guess this is the first time
I’m not trying to win you back.

Not by becoming someone
you might’ve stayed for.

I’ve tried all of it.

I’ve rewritten memories.
I’ve blamed timing.
I’ve blamed myself.
I’ve begged reality to bend.

It didn’t.

Because time moves fast
but it wounds slowly.

It only makes it easier
to carry around in public.

I still don’t know how far this goes.
Or what healing is supposed to look like.
I just know I’ve stopped
chasing the end of it.

And I don’t believe anymore
that pain makes me wiser.
At some point, it just makes me tired.

But at least now,
I call things what they are.

I made mistakes.
You made choices.
We broke it.
We didn’t fix it.

Now I just need to stop pretending
I can rewrite it.

Even the parts
where I knew better
and still chose wrong.

Or the parts
that still speak to me
like they have something to say.

And before this really ends,
I know I loved you.

And maybe that’s the only truth
worth keeping.

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