I hate that I still hope. Not enough to wait. Not enough to go back. Not enough to throw away everything I've built since you left. Just enough.
Enough for a memory to catch me off guard. Enough for a song to stop me in my tracks. Enough for a stupid status on a random day to hit me in the chest like a freight train.
I hate that after everything—after all the tears, all the fights, all the disappointment, all the nights spent begging reality to be different— there is still a small part of me that whispers: "What if?"
What if we had just needed time? What if we had grown up? What if one day we met again and finally understood all the things we were too stubborn, too scared, too broken to understand back then? What if all the pain meant something?
I know the truth. I know who you became. I know what you did. I know how many times I stood in front of a closed door hoping you'd open it and choose us. I know how many pieces of myself I left behind trying to carry a relationship that needed two people. I know how many times I begged for things that should have been given freely. I know how many conversations ended exactly where they started. I know how many times I stayed because I loved you and how many times I almost left because I loved myself.
That's the worst part. Because I am not in love with the reality anymore. I am grieving the dream. The dream that you were my forever. The dream that you were my happily ever after. The dream that all the pain would eventually lead somewhere. The dream that one day you'd figure it out. The dream that we'd survive everything life threw at us. The dream that we'd look at each other years later and laugh and say: "We were idiots, but we found our way back."
Maybe that's why letting go hurts so much. Not because I don't know what happened. Not because I want to forget. But because once upon a time, I chose you. Completely. With my whole heart. With every piece of certainty I had. And even now, after everything, there is still a part of me mourning the life I thought we were going to have.
And maybe the hardest part is that you still linger. Not in the big ways anymore. Not in the way that makes me wait for a message. Not in the way that makes me believe you're coming back. You linger in the small things. The things nobody warns you about.
The way I still make my coffee exactly how you used to make it for me because every other way tastes wrong. The way I still reach for the same ingredients and measurements without thinking because somewhere along the way they became ours. The way I hear your voice in old voicemails from work and suddenly I'm transported back to another version of my life. The way certain songs still belong to you. The way I can still hear your voice singing beside me when they come on. The way I still remember us dancing in the kitchen. The way I can almost feel your hands around my waist when I'm cooking and music is playing loud enough to drown out the world. The way I still hear you rapping out of nowhere. The way I'd laugh and follow along. The way we made a home out of stupid moments that never seemed important at the time. You linger in places I didn't even realize I had stored you. And maybe that's why this hurts so much. Because I didn't realize how much of you was still here. I didn't realize how many tiny pieces of my life still carried your fingerprints.
I thought I had accepted it. I thought I had made peace with it. I thought I had moved on. But every now and then something happens and I have to face a truth I've spent so long trying not to look directly at.
I miss you. And I hate admitting that.
Because you left. Because you came back and still chose other people. Because you hurt me. Because I know better now. Because I know we weren't good for each other anymore. Because I know love isn't enough when trust is gone. Because I know that wanting something doesn't make it healthy. I know all of that. And still— I miss you.
Maybe not every day. Maybe not in the way I used to. Maybe not enough to go back. But enough to ache sometimes. Enough to wonder what could have been. Enough to grieve the future that never happened. Enough to remember the good and hate that I still do.
I don't miss the lies. I don't miss the disappointment. I don't miss begging. I don't miss feeling abandoned while standing right beside you. I don't miss wondering whether I was enough.
I miss believing. I miss believing we would make it. I miss believing love could fix what was broken. I miss believing that one day we'd get our happy ending. And maybe that's what grief really is. Not wanting someone back. Not wishing to relive the pain. Not forgetting what happened. Just mourning the story you thought you were living. Because some part of me still loves the man I thought you would become. And maybe some part of me always will.
Not because I am waiting for you. Not because I haven't moved on. But because you mattered. Because we mattered. Because for a long time, you were home. And homes don't disappear overnight. Sometimes they become ruins. Sometimes they become memories. Sometimes they become scars. Healed. Closed. Part of the past. But still there when your fingers brush against them.
And every now and then, when the music is right and the kitchen is quiet and the coffee tastes exactly the way you used to make it, I remember. And for a moment, I miss you. Maybe not enough to return but just enough to grieve....
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
stormborns
origamiaround
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
baratheonpilled
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