I stopped letting myself wish for things I knew would never come.
Wishing only wounds the heart. It keeps you tethered to futures that were never meant to hold you, to people who were never meant to stay. It teaches you to ache for what was never yours, to cradle an absence as if it were a promise.
Hope can be gentle, but wishing is sharp.
It cuts in places you didn’t know could bleed.
It makes you linger in moments that have already passed, replaying them until the edges blur and the truth disappears.
So I don’t wish anymore.
Not for you, not for what could have been, not for the version of us that only lived in my imagination.
The heart survives better when it stops reaching for things that refuse to be held.


















