If the Wind Could Speak

You left on a Wednesday. No one ever talks about Wednesdays. Not like Sundays, which are heavy with memory, or Fridays, full of longing. But Wednesday became my most feared day, because it took you with it.

It was not dramatic. You just walked out. No shouting, no crying, no slamming of doors. Just silence. You closed the door gently, as if you did not want to disturb the quiet you were leaving behind. I stood still, like furniture, watching your back disappear.

And since then, the wind has been talking to me.

It whispers through the trees when I sit alone in the park where we once laughed. It rattles the windows at night, asking why you left. It rushes past my ears on cold mornings, and I think I hear your voice in it. The wind carries pieces of you, and though I cannot catch them, I feel them brushing against my skin like a secret.

Sometimes, I talk back. I say your name softly and hope the wind will take it to you. I hope it flies across cities, over rivers, past every red light you may stop at, and finds you in whatever place you now call home. I wonder if you ever hear it—my voice, soft and unsure, calling to a memory that is still breathing.

You told me once that you felt like you were drowning. I wish I had listened more closely. I thought love was enough to save you. I thought I was your anchor, but maybe I was the weight. You needed space, air, distance. You needed to float, not sink. I kept pulling you closer, thinking it would help, not knowing it made it worse.

Now I am the one underwater.

Every morning, I wake up with heaviness in my chest. It is not pain exactly. It is like a stone that rests there, quiet but unmovable. I carry it into the kitchen, to the bathroom, back to bed. It is always with me. I drink coffee with the stone. I shower with it. I sleep beside it. I even named it after you.

I see you in small things. A pair of shoes outside a shop window that look like the ones you always wore. A certain laugh on a stranger that sounds like yours. A song that you once played while cooking, dancing barefoot on the tiled floor. I paused the song today. Not because I could not listen, but because I wanted to keep that memory untouched.

Sometimes, I think about calling you. I imagine the phone ringing, you answering, your voice surprised but warm. I would ask, “How have you been?” and you would say something like, “Different.” We would talk for a while. I would tell you about the new café that opened down the street, the one you would have loved. I would tell you about the plant you left behind. I kept it alive, just like I promised.

But I never call. Because I know the voice I remember might not be the one I hear now. And I am not sure which would hurt more—hearing you as a stranger or not hearing you at all.

I have changed too. I started walking in the evenings. At first, it was to pass time. But now, it is a way to move through the ache. I watch the sky turn orange and pink, and I think maybe you are looking at the same sky, in some far place. Maybe we are still under the same sky. Maybe that is enough.

I am not angry anymore. I understand now. Some people are not meant to stay, even if they are loved. Some hearts are wild and cannot be held. They belong to the wind, to the road, to silence. You are one of them.

But just so you know—I never stopped loving you. Even now, in your absence, I carry that love like a folded note in my pocket. It is wrinkled and faded, but the words are still clear. “I was yours. Even when you left, I stayed.”

So, if the wind ever speaks to you, listen closely. If it feels like someone is calling your name, it is me. I am still here. Not waiting, not hoping. Just remembering. And maybe, just maybe, loving you still.