I loved us. That was always the phrase that echoed in my heart quietly, gently, like a lullaby that made everything feel safe. There was a rhythm in the way we moved together, the way our conversations didn't need filters, and how our silence still felt full. You were more than a person to me you were home.
Ours wasn't just a relationship; it was a sanctuary. A place where I could laugh loudly and cry softly. Where I could be silly without shame and broken without judgment. We brought out the best in each other, and in you, I found something I didn't know I was allowed to hope for peace, connection, a kind of love that felt like it was written before either of us knew how to spell the word.
Every day with you felt like a chapter worth rereading. I held on to little moments like treasures—your laugh at 2 AM, your hand reaching for mine without a word, your eyes that knew what I couldn't say. And deep inside, I whispered promises to myself. This is it. This is forever. I love you. I love us.
But life isn't a script, and dreams don't always survive the daylight.
You left.
Not with a slam, not with fire but like fog retreating at dawn. Quiet. Final. You left, and everything we were unraveled with you. All the hopes I tied to your presence scattered like ash in my chest. And now, all the warmth, the laughter, the truth we once held live only in memories I replay in the quietest parts of my night.
What hurts the most isn't the goodbye. It's that our forever was real to me. And maybe it still is. But now it's just a ghost an echo of the love I gave without hesitation. A ghost dream I still walk through, even when I know you're never coming back.