The Question Beneath the Sunset

Would it be possible?

I don’t know. I can’t know. It’s been three years since my breakup—no, not a divorce, not a marriage, just a breakup. But does that make it any less significant? It doesn’t feel that way. It still feels heavy, like the shadow of the life I thought I had figured out.

We were supposed to have it all—buy a house, have kids, a dog, live that dream of shared happiness. At least, I thought we were. Was it my illusion all along? The signs were there, weren’t they? That he wasn’t happy. Not with me, not with us—just with himself. For the longest time, I thought I was the problem. I thought if I could fix him, if I could just pour enough of my love into the cracks, I could make it whole.

But love doesn’t work that way, does it? That was the first lesson.

Now I’m here, sitting by my window, pen in hand, the soft hum of life outside breaking the silence of my thoughts. The golden light of sunset spills across the room, painting the walls in hues of orange and pink.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

But is it as beautiful when you admire it alone? My eyes flicker to the empty seat beside me, and my chest tightens. That’s what I miss, I think—not just the love, but the sharing. The way two people can look at something as simple as the setting sun and make it feel infinite, timeless.

I think about that kind of love often—the kind that doesn’t need words. When two people just… understand. A glance, a touch, a moment shared. It’s not about grand gestures or sweeping romance; it’s the quiet care of two souls looking out for each other. It’s in the way you save the last bite of cake because you know they love it more. Or how they pour you tea just the way you like it, without you even asking.

It’s the small things, the simple things.

But are they really so simple?

I crave that. I crave it in a way that feels almost desperate some nights, even though I know I’m strong on my own. I’ve rebuilt myself brick by brick, piece by piece. I’ve laughed again, cried again, learned to love the girl I was before I forgot who she was.

She was bright and bold and full of light, and I see her now when I look in the mirror. She’s still there, maybe a little scarred, but whole.

And yet, there’s this ache—a longing that I can’t quite put into words. Will I ever find that spark again? That connection that feels electric and warm all at once?

Maybe I’ve romanticized it too much. Maybe it’s just the idea of love that I miss, not the reality of it.

But then I think, what if the next time is different? What if it’s not the all-consuming, fiery kind of love but something quieter? Something steady and calm.

Would I even recognize it if it came?

I sigh and set my pen down for a moment, watching the world outside. The breeze stirs the leaves on the trees, and the faint sound of laughter drifts in from somewhere far off.

Life goes on, doesn’t it?

Whether or not I find that connection again, the world keeps spinning. People fall in love, fall out of love, move forward.

But I don’t want just any love. I can’t settle for something empty, something shallow. I know myself too well now. I know I need depth, understanding, that intangible magic that makes the ordinary extraordinary.

It’s not about high expectations—it’s about wanting something real. Something that makes me feel alive.

The sun dips lower on the horizon, and I realize that for all my wondering, I’m still here.

I’m still open to the possibility.

Even with the fear, even with the uncertainty, I want to believe that love—real, wholehearted love—could happen again.

And if it doesn’t?

Well, I’ll keep watching sunsets. I’ll keep finding joy in the simple things.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn that sharing those moments with myself is enough.

For now.