Letters from the past.
I don't think I ever really stopped looking for you. Not in ways people notice—no calls, no messages. Just quietly. Like a habit I never unlearned.
Like some part of me still believes you're out there, just slightly out of reach. It's not hope. It can't be. It's just what happens when someone leaves and your body doesn't believe them. When your mind understands, but something deeper doesn't catch up. So you keep searching without meaning to. I mean, sometimes I catch myself looking for you without realizing it. Looking into crowds for a face that doesn't belong here. Looking around like I forgot something, only to realize it was always you.
Because some people don't really leave. They just stop being where they used to be and start showing up everywhere you wish they weren't. You faded into everything. Into faces. Into streets. Into parts of me I can't get to without hurting. And sometimes, when I'm on my way back home, I still see you. Even though you don't live nearby. Even though you don't live here at all. And that's the thing. No one ever tells you what to do with love that outlives its place. Its purpose. Love that doesn't die, so it turns inward instead. It folds itself into you, and just sits there. Rotting Repeating. It becomes the reason you feel heavy for no reason at all. It becomes the ache you can't name. You just live with it. That sense that something isn't right, but there's nothing you can point to. Nothing to hold. Nothing left. Just them.
There are months I don't remember because I was too busy surviving his absence - walking into rooms and forgetting why, whispering his name into coffee mugs like it could stir something back. I measure time by the last time he said "you're mine" and the first time I didn't believe it. I still wear the bruises he didn't give me, just moments that hit too hard. He's a one-man apocalypse, and I've built cities inside me just to let him destroy them. I want to sit beside him in a car going nowhere, radio broken, heart breaking louder. I don't want peace. I want him - messy, bleeding, late, and mine.
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