When I Finally Let You Go

The rain started without warning the night I packed away your navy sweater—the one with sleeves that draped over my hands, perfect for hiding the way they shook. Fitting, I suppose. You left with just as little notice.

The apartment felt hollow. I didn’t need to glance around to feel the void. Your absence hung in the silence—no quiet humming from the kitchen, no jingle of your keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, and no trace of that scent you wore—earthy, citrusy, familiar. I lit a lavender candle just to chase away what was left of you, but memories clung to the walls like dust.

I moved with care, folding your belongings as if they were made of glass—far more gently than you ever handled my heart. Every item carried a ghost of us. The chipped blue mug from our Asheville getaway. The vinyl we danced to, tipsy and barefoot. The dent in the drywall from when laughter made me fall out of the chair.

I couldn’t cry—at least not yet. It wasn’t because I didn’t hurt. I just hadn’t thawed out enough to feel the sting. Heartbreak doesn’t always come with sobs. Sometimes it starts as a heavy quiet, like wool stuffed in your ears, dull and suffocating.

Outside, the storm lashed harder, tapping on the windows like it was asking to come inside. You once told me rain had a way of making things feel renewed. I used to believe that, too. Now, it just made everything feel more abandoned.

I didn’t mean to find your note. It was crumpled in the back of the drawer beneath faded postcards and grocery receipts. A rushed apology, written on lined paper: "Sorry I couldn’t be who you needed. I’m still figuring myself out."

Honestly? Screw that.

No one wants to be someone’s life jacket. I didn’t need saving—I just needed someone to hold on when the storm rolled in.

I made tea without thinking. The whistle of the kettle broke the silence like a warning siren. The mug scalded my palms, and I held it tight. That kind of pain reminded me I was still here. Still breathing.

Wrapped in your sweater, I sat by the window, watching the city smear under the rain. Tail lights streaked like lipstick on a mirror. Across the street, a couple walked close under an umbrella, their laughter light and sharp. I hated them for being happy. I loved them for reminding me it was still possible.

I wondered if you felt free now. If your nights were quieter. If maybe you missed the sound of my laugh—the one you used to say made the world feel safe. I wondered about a lot of things.

That night, I cracked the window open and let the candle burn itself out. I needed the lavender lies to drift away. I needed the chill on my skin. And I needed to say the words, finally:

“I forgive you.”

Not for you.

For me.

Because grief is like gripping shards of glass—you bleed and bleed until you finally understand it’s time to let go.

I stayed by the window longer than I meant to, watching the city breathe beneath the rain. Everything felt distant—like I was floating just outside my own life, watching someone else live it. The tea had gone cold in my hands, but I didn’t move. Sometimes stillness is the only thing that makes sense after chaos. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded. I thought about all the versions of us that never got to exist. The ones that might have laughed through the years, grown old together. But not every love story ends with forever. Some just end.