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For a long time, I kept finding you in little things. A song playing in a café, a familiar street, a message I almost sent before remembering that we don't talk anymore.
I used to wonder if you missed me the way I missed you. Whether you ever stopped in the middle of your day and remembered us, even for a second.
Some nights, I wished things had ended differently. I replayed our conversations, searching for the moment everything changed, hoping to find something I could have done to make you stay.
But slowly, I began to understand that I couldn't spend my whole life looking for answers you might never give me.
I still miss you. I won't pretend otherwise. But I'm learning that missing someone doesn't mean I have to return to them.
Maybe moving on isn't forgetting the person who once meant everything. Maybe it's remembering them without wishing you could change the past.
And that's what I'm trying to do now—accept that you were once a beautiful part of my life, even if you weren't meant to stay.
For the first time, I'm letting the story end without begging for another chapter.
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