Loving You Was the Easiest Goodbye

I used to believe that love meant holding on.

Through storms. Through silence. Through everything.

I used to think that real love endured. That if you fought hard enough, stayed long enough, loved deep enough—it would all work out.

But I’ve learned something since then.

Sometimes, love isn’t about holding on.

It’s about letting go.

We weren’t always broken.

There was a time—

When we danced in the kitchen at 2 a.m., when we ordered takeout and pretended it was fancy, when I caught you staring at me with that half-smile that said “I’m lucky.”

I believed in that version of us.

I would’ve bet my life on it.

But love doesn’t always disappear in a crash.

Sometimes, it fades.

Quietly. Slowly.

Like a candle burning down to nothing while you’re too distracted to notice.

The first time I felt alone while sitting next to you, I told myself it was just a phase.

We were tired. Busy. Distracted.

But then days turned into weeks, and your affection turned into indifference.

The way you used to say my name—soft, deliberate—turned into an afterthought.

The texts became replies.

The kisses became routine.

And the silence between us stretched so wide that even shouting couldn't bridge it.

One evening, I sat on the edge of our bed, holding the shirt you used to sleep in.

It still smelled like you.

But even that didn’t feel like comfort anymore.

Just a memory wrapped in fabric.

I tried talking to you.

Tried reaching across the invisible wall growing between us.

But your responses were clipped, distracted.

I asked you if you were happy.

You shrugged.

I asked if you still loved me.

You looked away.

And that silence answered everything.

I made coffee the next morning like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

I added an extra spoon of sugar—just how you liked it—and left it on the kitchen counter.

You didn’t even notice.

That’s when I started packing.

Not in anger.

Not in tears.

Just… in truth.

One drawer at a time.

A few clothes.

My books.

The plant I named after our first vacation spot.

And a photo—us on the beach, sunburnt and laughing.

Back when we were whole.

You came home late that night.

Didn’t ask about the half-empty closet.

Didn’t notice the suitcase by the door.

You just asked, “You okay?”

I nodded.

You nodded back.

That was the last real conversation we had.

The day I left, you were in the shower.

I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of running water and wondering—Would you chase me if I said goodbye out loud?

I already knew the answer.

I left a note on the table.

Nothing dramatic.

Just:

"This isn’t what love should feel like. I need more. Maybe you do too."

I walked away with no makeup, no tears—just peace.

And oddly, it wasn’t painful.

It was easy.

Because when someone stops choosing you, loving them becomes a memory, not a mission.

And saying goodbye?

It becomes freedom.

Months passed.

The seasons changed.

The pain I expected never came in waves.

It came like a soft rain—brief, passing, almost gentle.

I started laughing again.

Started listening to music without skipping our song.

Started smiling at strangers and feeling whole in empty rooms.

You texted once.

“Hope you’re okay.”

I didn’t reply.

Not because I was angry.

But because I finally understood…

You were the chapter I had to close to begin the one where I loved myself.

People still ask, “Do you miss him?”

And I always smile, half-sincere.

I don’t miss the you I walked away from.

I miss who you were—before the love turned quiet and the home turned cold.

I miss the girl I used to be when I believed we were forever.

But missing doesn’t mean regretting.

Because if I hadn’t loved you, I wouldn’t know my worth.

If I hadn’t lost you, I wouldn’t have found myself.

So, no.

I don’t hate you.

I don’t resent you.

But I don’t want you back.

Loving you was the easiest goodbye—

Because staying would have meant losing me.

And I was finally ready to choose myself.