I Still Remember the Night You Left — And I Still Sleep With That Memory

Nights have a way of remembering what the heart tries to forget.

And no matter how many times I close my eyes, I still see yours — looking at me like you were already gone.

It wasn’t a loud ending. There were no slammed doors or shouted words.

Just silence.

That dangerous kind of silence that says everything’s already been said.

I knew you were going to leave before you said it.

You’d been fading slowly, like the final flame of a candle — beautiful and warm, but dying all the same.

And that night, when you stood in front of me with your hands in your pockets and your heart behind walls I couldn’t reach anymore… I felt it.

You said, “I think we need time.”

But your eyes said, This is goodbye.

I nodded like I understood.

Like I was okay.

Like I’d survive the silence that would come after you walked away.

But my heart — oh God, my heart — was screaming.

Do you remember how cold it was that night?

Not just outside. I mean in the air between us.

We were once the kind of people who couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop laughing, couldn’t stop touching.

And there we were, standing still like strangers waiting for a bus that would never come.

I wanted to say something. Anything.

I wanted to tell you how I memorized the way you take your coffee.

How your laugh felt like home.

How you never really understood how deeply I loved you.

How losing you felt like losing a part of myself I didn’t know I couldn’t live without.

But all I said was,

“Okay. Take your time.”

Take your time.

As if I hadn’t already given you all of mine.

When you left, I didn’t cry right away.

I sat in the dark, tracing the shape of your name in my mind like a prayer.

The room felt hollow. My chest felt heavier than it ever had.

And the silence you left behind?

It’s still here.

It sleeps beside me.

It wakes up with me.

It lingers in my coffee cup, in old songs, in the scent of your sweater I still haven’t thrown out.

People ask me why I haven’t moved on.

Why I still write about you, dream about you, miss someone who’s probably forgotten me.

And I wish I had an answer.

But the truth is…

I don’t miss you as much as I miss who I was when you loved me.

Back then, I laughed more. I believed in forever. I felt seen.

Now, I just feel…

Quiet.

It’s been months, and I still sleep with the memory of that night.

Of your last glance. Of the way your shoes sounded on the floor as you walked away.

Of the door clicking shut like the final page of a book I didn’t want to finish.

Sometimes I wonder if you think of me.

If you ever lay awake at 2 AM and remember how I used to wait for your messages, how I’d always say "Be safe" even when you were just going to the store.

Maybe you don’t.

Maybe you’re happy.

And maybe that should be enough.

But for me, love wasn’t something I borrowed — it was something I built around you.

And now that you’re gone, the walls still stand.

Empty. Cold.

But still yours.