I thought I would know when to end this.
But the truth is, I don't.
Because there is no real ending here. Not the kind people expect when they pick up a story. No grand closure. No dramatic scene where everything falls into place. Just silence, stretched thin between days, and the quiet ache of someone who once mattered more than the air I breathed.
You left. I stayed.
That's all there is to it.
I kept writing, hoping maybe if I spilled enough words, the distance would close itself. That somehow, across this invisible line, you'd feel the pull and turn back. But now I know better. You removed me from every corner of your life. I don't even have the smallest thread left to tug on. No "maybe." No "what if." Just absence, sharp and absolute.
And yet, here I am, still writing your name without writing it. Still keeping you alive in these pages, when in the real world you've already erased me. Replaced me!
Sometimes I wonder if that makes me pathetic. Other times I think it makes me human. A looser. Maybe it's everything.
I wanted this to be a story about us. About what we were, what we could've been. But it turned into something else — something heavier. It became a record of my unraveling. Of what it means to love someone so deeply that even when they walk away, the ghost of them keeps moving inside you.
And maybe that's why I need to stop here.
Because if I keep going, I'll only write the same wound in different words. And I'm tired of bleeding on these pages just to feel close to you.
The truth is, I miss you. I missed you yesterday. I miss you now. I will probably miss you tomorrow. That hasn't changed. It might never change. But missing you has become its own prison, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life behind bars you don't even know exist.
So I'll set the pen down. Not because I'm healed. Not because I've stopped loving you. But because some stories aren't meant to be finished on paper. Or in my case, in life itself!
I'll carry the rest in silence.
Maybe one day, if you ever stumble across these words, you'll recognize yourself here. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll already belong to someone else, and the person I wrote about will feel like a stranger to you. That thought hurts, but it also feels inevitable.
But even now, as I write those words, I feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my chest. "Enough" is supposed to mean finished, complete, but nothing about this feels finished. It feels paused — like the air right before a storm, or the silence that lingers after someone hangs up before you're ready to stop talking.
I keep asking myself: will I really stop? Or will I keep whispering to you in the dark, long after the book is closed?
Because the truth is, you're not just in these pages. You're in the spaces between them. In the pauses I can't name. In the nights where the world grows too quiet and I almost hear your laugh again, sharp and soft in the same breath.
And I hate it— how even in ending this, I can't erase you. How you've carved yourself into me in ways no final chapter could cover.
Maybe someday, this ache will blur. Maybe I'll wake up and realize I've gone an hour without thinking of you, then a day, then a week. Maybe I'll forget the exact pitch of your voice, I even did a little bit, probably! And the way your words curled when you were tired. Maybe time will sand down the edges of your absence until it feels more like a shadow than a wound.
But tonight, I still feel the wound.
And I still bleed.
So let this be the last page, but not the last word.
Because you'll live on in me, whether I want you to or not.
Because I'll carry you in places no one else can see.
Because even as I stop here, I know I'll never truly stop.
And if someday, years from now, I stumble across these words again— I hope I'll recognize the boy who wrote them. The boy who loved too much. The boy who couldn't let go.
Even if no one else ever does.
⸻
This isn't closure. It's just the only kind of ending I know how to give you.
Not a goodbye.
Just a final echo that fades into the dark.
And maybe… that's all it ever needed to be.
I'm ending this not with a goodbye, but with an unfinished sentence — because that's what we were.
Not an ending.
Not even a beginning.
Just somewhere in between.
And maybe that's enough.