Since we broke up, I’ve been discovering that losing someone we still love is a cruel kind of absence. Perhaps you’ll find in someone else’s arms the comfort you once sought in mine; and that’s okay. From the bottom of my heart, I hope you’ll be happy and, I don’t know, that you’ll be happier than you were with me.
But what hurts most isn’t imagining you with someone else. It’s realizing that one day we’ll be two strangers who know everything about a love that pride took away. Damn it, why didn’t I hold back more? Why did I have to react every time I felt insecure? I’ll still remember how you liked to sleep, your little habits, your voice on sad days.
I also grieve for who we never got to be. For the old age I imagined by your side. For the conversations that died before they could happen. For all the days I would have chosen to spend with you. Today, at the supermarket, I caught myself looking for the coffee you liked. Only afterward did I remember that there was no longer anyone waiting for me at home. But you no longer live anywhere this love can reach.