When the Heart Breaks

I woke again before dawn. Not sure why. Maybe to feel the space beside me that’s always empty now. I held you in my dreams—or maybe it was just memory pretending. My chest feels hollow in the way it used to when I first realized we weren’t enough. Or maybe that’s every time I think about you. Did you ever think about me the way I think about you? Probably not. Probably never.

The world keeps moving. And I’m here. Still. Clutching invisible threads that lead to your hands. Your voice. The way it would curve into my ear like it belonged there. And I reach, but you’re gone. Not just gone, but dissolved. Like you were never really mine, like the time we spent together was a mirage we both believed in.

I remember the first night I realized love isn’t always enough. Your fingers are tracing my back. My skin. And I thought I could hold onto it forever. But time is cruel. Time is a thief. I can almost feel it stealing—slipping through the cracks. And I? I tried to catch it with my teeth, my hands, my stubborn hope. It laughed.

I wear your memory like an old coat, frayed at the edges. Threadbare. Every tug, every thought pulls me down further. There’s a heaviness I can’t explain. Sinking, always sinking. Did you ever feel it? The quiet bleeding, the invisible fractures inside? Or was I alone in that? Alone with the echo of your footsteps leaving my room, my life, my world.

Your name—still burns. Not on my skin, but somewhere inside. A scar I can’t see. A scar that whispers. And sometimes I talk to it. Sometimes I pretend it’s you. But the voice is mine. The ache is mine. I am trying to let go. But the letting go feels like falling. Falling without the hope of landing anywhere soft.

We were leaves once. You and I. Green, trembling, reaching for the light. And then autumn came. The wind came. And now I am scattered. Every street, every song, every corner of my apartment smells like what we were. And I hate it. And I crave it. And I can’t stop thinking. And I can’t stop missing you.

I try to fill the space. With work. With coffee. With the people around me who don’t know. Who can’t know? But it’s all shadows. Shadows of you. Shadows of everything I lost. I whisper your name sometimes. A ritual. A prayer. And I think you might hear it. Somewhere. If only in the wind.

I wonder if love always hurts. Suppose every heartbeat carries the risk of breaking. And I know it does. I know that now. Because this—this aching, hollow, desperate ache—is proof. Proof that we dared. Proof that I loved. And proof that sometimes, love isn’t enough.

I am trying to remember the good. The warmth. Your laughter. The way the world felt lighter with you in it. But the memory twists into pain. And the pain twists into memory. And I spiral. And I wonder if I will ever stop spiralling. And I wonder if I want to stop.

I will let go. I think. Maybe. Piece by piece. Scar by scar. The fragments will remain, but the edges will dull. I will breathe again. I will laugh again. Maybe I will love again. But not like this. Not like you. Not with you.

And the night comes, as it always does, and I lie awake, listening to the quiet. The quiet that feels like your absence. And I am here. And I am broken. And I am learning that some love is meant to break. And breaking is not the end. It’s just the beginning of something else, something smaller, something quieter. But still—still—I survive.