To ______,
I’d be lying to myself if I say that I don’t miss you—that I’ve stopped thinking of you. How long has it been since we were like this? I don’t know since I stopped counting the days when it started hurting less. Say—we’re meeting sooner than expected—maybe still carrying the same weight that was left behind or hiding parts of ourselves we’re both still scared to show, would that change anything?
I’ve changed. These days, I speak less and listen more.
Ever since we agreed that distance was what we needed, I found myself growing quieter. Not because I wanted to shut the world out—more like I realized I couldn’t be the same with anyone else, even if I tried.
I’ve started enjoying the taste of coffee... and tea too.
I take solo bike rides now, just to breathe. To feel the wind and not rush anywhere.
Sometimes I stop by the park near the riverside—it’s quiet there. Impersonal, peaceful. A place where I can just exist without needing to be anything for anyone.
I know I’m healing—at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. There are days I wake up lighter, moments when the ache doesn’t press so hard against my chest, when I can breathe without thinking of everything I lost. And in those moments, I think, 'Maybe I’m really getting better.' But then—suddenly, quietly—grief slips back in. It creeps in through the spaces I thought I had already mended. And I find myself asking: If I am truly healing, why does it still hurt this much? Why do I feel like I’m still stuck in the same place, even though I know I’ve come so far? Maybe healing isn’t always obvious. Maybe it’s not loud or triumphant.
Maybe it looks a lot like breaking sometimes—like crying in the middle of a calm day, or missing someone just when you thought you stopped.
I barely recognize the new version of you.
The truth is, the only version I ever really knew—really understood—was the one from before. The one who laughed a certain way, who said things in passing that stayed with me for days. And if you've changed—and I’m sure you have—I don’t know if I could handle that. Not like before. Not with the same strength I thought I had back then. Because I held on so tightly to who you were, not realizing that people don’t stay still.
And maybe that’s what scares me now...
That I’m holding on to a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore, while trying to prepare myself for the stranger you might have become.
We were so close—closer than I ever expected two people to be. But now I find myself asking… at what cost? The unexpected feelings that grew between us, the ones we never meant to water, ended up changing everything. They blurred the lines, cracked the foundation we built so carefully. And maybe that’s what ruined it all. Or maybe… just maybe, those feelings didn’t ruin anything.
Maybe they revealed something we weren’t ready to face.
Would it be strange if I told you I miss your laugh—even though I’ve never actually heard it? Would it be strange to say I miss your smile, even if I’ve never really seen it in person? Because I do.
Because somehow, in all the silence and distance, I still carry the version of you my heart created. And if you ever cry—God, if you ever do—I would give anything to wipe your tears with my own fingers.
Just so you’d know, without words, that I’m here.
That I’ve always been.
I know it’s not love I’m yearning for—it’s the friendship we lost. The kind that felt effortless. The kind where laughter came easy and silence was never awkward. I miss the good old days. The shared jokes, the small glances that said more than words ever could, the way we just… understood each other. And as much as I try to move on, the memories keep finding me. Not gently—but all at once.
How can I forget, when everything we once were still echoes in everything I do?
From...
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