The Day Love Died Inside Me



## **The Day Love Died Inside Me**

It was supposed to be just another morning — sunlight slipping gently through the curtains, the sound of her laughter filling the kitchen, the smell of coffee floating in the air. But that day, everything felt heavier. Even the silence had weight.

She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Sometimes, you can feel the goodbye long before it’s spoken. She looked at me with eyes that once held galaxies, and now there was nothing but quiet space — empty, endless, and cold.

I tried to smile, pretending I didn’t notice the distance. I poured her coffee the way she liked — two sugars, no cream — but she didn’t drink it. She just stared at it, as if the cup could answer questions neither of us dared to ask.

Then she said it.
Softly.
“Maybe we’ve become strangers who just remember love.”

That was the moment. The precise second love died inside me. Not because she left, but because I finally understood that love isn’t always enough to keep two hearts together. Sometimes, it fades — not in fire or chaos, but in quiet, like a candle that simply runs out of wax.

After she walked away, the house didn’t feel like mine anymore. Every room whispered her name. The couch still remembered her warmth. The walls still carried our laughter. Even the air seemed thinner without her breath.

Days passed, then weeks. People told me time heals all wounds. But time doesn’t heal — it teaches. It taught me how to live with the echo of someone who once felt permanent. It taught me that heartbreak isn’t the end; it’s just a brutal kind of beginning.

I started walking again. At first just around the block, then across the city. Every face I passed was a reminder that we all carry invisible scars. Everyone is surviving something.

One evening, I stopped by the river where we first met. The water reflected the sunset — gold melting into crimson — and for the first time, I didn’t feel anger or sadness. Just acceptance. I realized love doesn’t truly die. It changes form. It becomes memory, lesson, poetry.

And that’s what she became —
a poem I never meant to write,
a wound that learned how to breathe,
a love that lived, burned, and turned into light.

So yes — the day love died inside me, something else was born.
Strength.
Peace.
And a heart that finally learned that endings are just disguised beginnings.

After she walked away, the house didn’t feel like mine anymore. Every room whispered her name. The couch still remembered her warmth. The walls still carried our laughter. Even the air seemed thinner without her breath.

Days passed, then weeks. People told me time heals all wounds. But time doesn’t heal — it teaches. It taught me how to live with the echo of someone who once felt permanent. It taught me that heartbreak isn’t the end; it’s just a brutal kind of beginning.

I started walking again. At first just around the block, then across the city. Every face I passed was a reminder that we all carry invisible scars. Everyone is surviving something.

It was supposed to be just another morning — sunlight slipping gently through the curtains, the sound of her laughter filling the kitchen, the smell of coffee floating in the air. But that day, everything felt heavier. Even the silence had weight.

She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Sometimes, you can feel the goodbye long before it’s spoken. She looked at me with eyes that once held galaxies, and now there was nothing but quiet space — empty, endless, and cold.

I love you 💓