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Slowly, without asking to bloom again. I’ll try to stop searching for you in places I know you no longer are. I’ll try to let you go without waiting for you to come back with the answer I once hoped you’d find. I’ll try to feel all of it. The disappointment, the anger, and the sorrow. Even if I still understand why it all had to break. I’ll try not to reach for a version of us that never learned how to stay again. I’ll try to accept that this was the very last page. I’ll try to say no when my heart begs to remember you one more time. And I’ll try to stop looking for a new way to love you from afar. And I’ll learn to do it better. Day after day after day.

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...

Every word before it was said. Every shift before it arrived. But now, that knowing leads nowhere. It’s trapped inside you. Restless, useless. You know the signs. You see the shifts. You feel the ending, the anger, the hate, pressed between words. But what can you do with all that knowing? Because the world you memorized before it ever spoke a word, now moves on its own. And even when you still understand every sign, hope, silence and mess, there’s nothing left to reach for. You can’t even let it be something. It comes in waves, big and small. And sometimes, the smaller ones hurt even more. Because those you go looking for. You just don’t understand anything anymore.

 This is hard. It’s just really hard.

Either a reason to stay, or a reason to leave. A truth to uncover, or a wound to let go. A place for chance, or a way back home. Even at every crossroads, I always found a new direction. Because somewhere, somehow, I believed we’d meet again. Maybe for closure. Maybe for clarity. Maybe because I just wanted it to be. But now, knowing— truly knowing— that we were meant to end, has left something in me unheld. I keep reaching for something I can’t name. I keep searching, but there’s no thread to follow back. I find explanations, but they don’t fill my chest. I find clarity, but it fogs over just the same. Maybe what I’ve lost isn’t just him. But the version of me who always knew what to do with the hope of him, in a life that used to make sense. Maybe what I’ve lost are all the reasons I stood still for so long. Now, I just don’t know how to stay, how to move, how to be okay, or not be okay, without a reason pointing me somewhere he might be.

It’s not a splintered collapse. Not a loud shattering. Not a flood crashing in to drown everything at once. It’s an emptied space inside you, growing wider by the day, pressing against your ribs, your throat, your will to keep going. You can’t fight it. You can’t fix it. You can’t even name it. But it settles in your spine. It’s not loud. It’s slow. It’s steady. Suffocating. Like your own body forgetting how to hold itself up. It doesn’t make you hurt to breathe. Maybe it’s just because you don’t breathe the way you used to.