Not in the way people mean when they talk about “having it all.” Career, family, weekends full of plans, hearts full of new beginnings. No. I had you. And then I didn’t.

When you lose the one thing that tethered you to this noisy, glittery, overstimulated planet, everything becomes too loud, too much, and far too empty all at once. Like staring at a city skyline through soundproof glass—lights flicker, mouths move, but all you hear is silence and your own heartbeat asking: 

Not a real one—though God knows we dreamed it, sketched it in notebooks, and promised we'd build it out of palm trees and stolen time. But a metaphorical one. One that lived between long talks and tangled sheets, sleepy smiles and those moments when your hand found mine in a crowded room and I felt… home.

It was our little place. Our “us.” And now, it’s gone. Drifted. Like it never existed.

Funny how quickly a person can become a stranger. How the arms that once sheltered you from every storm now shelter someone else. How your name becomes just a memory in their mouth—if it’s remembered at all.

I walk among faces now, countless and unfamiliar. They smile, they speak, they share their lives. But none of them carry the map back to what I lost. None of them know the language we spoke, that silent shorthand of glances and breath, the laughter over nothing, the way I could finish your sentences and you could calm my storms without saying a word.

I have nothing else in this world that stitches me to meaning the way you did.

Even as the years pass and time rushes by without permission. Even as I watch sunsets alone and hear our song playing in cafés like a cruel joke. Even as I fake a smile and say I’m doing just fine.

I have the proof that for a while, however brief, I mattered in someone’s world.

And sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary day, when I pass a stranger with your eyes or smell your cologne in a crowd, a part of me believes you’ll come back. That somehow, you'll find the thread that leads back to me. That you’ll remember the island, the map, the promise.

I wait even though I live. I laugh. I work. I breathe.

I wait because that kind of love doesn’t evaporate. It sinks into your bones. It makes a home inside your ribcage and refuses to leave, no matter how many “healing crystals” you buy or how many affirmations you chant into the mirror.

I wait not because I think you will return… but because if you do, I want to be here.

Still foolish enough to believe that some loves—some people—are worth waiting a lifetime for.

Even if you never come back, I’ll always know one thing:

I had something once that made everything else feel small.

And in the absence of it, I carry the echo.

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I have nothing else in this world… but even so, I don’t regret it.

And I still wait, quietly, for the sound of you coming home.

Nothing But You (And Still I Wait)

A story of love lost, time passed, and the kind of waiting that never really ends.

Nothing But You (And Still I Wait)

I don’t have anything else.



Not really.



Not in the way people mean when they talk about “having it all.” Career, family, weekends full of plans, hearts full of new beginnings. No. I had you. And then I didn’t.



Nothing But You (And Still I Wait)

A story of love lost, time passed, and the kind of waiting that never really ends.

About the Creator

Angela David

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