We Stopped Talking, but I Never Stopped Loving You

I still remember the last message you sent me. It wasn’t anything dramatic or loud. Just a few words — short, cold, and final. I stared at the screen for a long time, reading them again and again, trying to find a hidden meaning. Something softer. Something that meant “goodbye for now,” not “forever.”

But forever came anyway.

We didn’t argue. There was no screaming, no blame. Just space that slowly grew between us, until one day, we simply stopped talking. No one tells you how hard silence can be — how it echoes louder than shouting. I thought love ended with fights and breakups. I didn’t know it could end so quietly, like a candle burning out when no one’s watching.

Still, even now, I haven’t stopped loving you.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How can someone be gone from your life but still live in your mind? I see things that remind me of you — your favorite song, your type of coffee, a joke you'd laugh at. And for a second, it’s like you’re still here. Like we’re still us.

I wonder if you ever think of me. I wonder if your chest tightens when someone mentions my name. Or if I’m just a closed chapter in your story, left behind and unread.

There’s so much I never got to say. So much I still carry inside me.

I miss your voice — not just the sound, but the way it made everything feel safe. You had this calm way of talking, like nothing was ever too much. And when I was falling apart, you never rushed to fix me. You just stayed. That mattered more than you’ll ever know.

I miss our late-night conversations. The ones where we said things we were too scared to say in the daylight. You told me your dreams. I told you my fears. It felt like we were building something real, something that could last. I held on to that feeling, even when the words stopped coming.

People tell me to move on. To let go. But how do you let go of something that never got a proper ending? We didn’t break up. We just… broke. Quietly. Slowly. Without warning.

Some days, I try to be angry with you. It would be easier if I hated you. But I don’t. I never did. All I feel is this ache — deep and still. Like my heart remembers something the rest of me is trying to forget.

Loving you was soft. Losing you was silent.

Maybe you left because you didn’t feel the same anymore. Maybe you were scared. Or maybe you just needed something I couldn’t give. Whatever the reason, I wish you had told me. I would’ve listened. I would’ve understood, even if it hurt.

I still replay our memories like old songs. That time we laughed until we cried. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about the future. The way you used to look at me like I was something rare. I hold those moments close, even though they burn.

Sometimes, I write messages I’ll never send. I type out everything I wish I could tell you — how much I miss you, how often I still think of you, how some part of me will always be waiting. Then I delete them. Because the silence between us has grown too wide now. And I don’t know if you’d even want to hear it.

But if somehow, you're reading this, know that I loved you. That I still do. And even if we never speak again, I’ll always be thankful for what we had. For the comfort, the connection, the quiet kind of love that changed me.

I’m not sure when I’ll stop missing you. Maybe I never will. But I’m learning how to carry this love without letting it weigh me down. I’m learning how to smile at our memories, even when they hurt.

And maybe one day, I’ll fall in love again. Maybe someone new will walk into my life and make me feel that same kind of peace. But I know one thing for sure — a part of me will always remember you. Not with regret. Not with pain. Just with a quiet kind of love that never really left.

We stopped talking.

But I never stopped loving you.