“Some loves never leave. They just live quietly — in the spaces where we once belonged.”

You were never simply a love.

You were the pulse beneath my ribs,

the echo inside my bones.

The part of me that was missing — until it wasn’t —

and now, missing again,

I feel half-alive.

I tried to leave you a hundred times.

I packed my heart, I locked my memories,

I walked away from the places that still smelt of you.

But you are everywhere —

in the quiet, in the ache,

in the hollow of my palm when I reach for air.

You broke me —

not once, but in small, deliberate ways

that only someone who has touched your soul can.

The chaos, the drama, the pushing and pulling,

the storms you created inside what was once peace.

And still, after every destruction,

I tried to rebuild us

with trembling hands and a heart that wouldn’t give up.

But each time I came back,

you shattered the light again.

Now, I sit among the ruins.

There’s no anger left — only the echo.

It hums through my veins like grief,

like a hymn for something holy and gone.

I tell myself I’m healing,

but even in the stillness,

I feel your ghost move beneath my skin.

It isn’t even love anymore — it’s something larger,

something crueler,

a force I cannot reason with.

It drags me under,

it burns in the pit of my stomach,

it makes me want to scream your name

and pray to forget it in the same breath.

I am haunted by you —

not by what we had,

but by what we could have been

if the world had been kinder to us.

You are still my everything,

and I am still learning

how to breathe without

the other half of my soul.