Somewhere, You Still Exist

You left in August. I remember because the sun looked tired, like it had been burning too long for too many people. That day, even the wind felt final.

We didn’t say goodbye properly. Not because we didn’t want to, but because we didn’t know how. Some moments don’t come with instructions. Some endings don't sound like goodbyes — they sound like silence.

I still set the table for two sometimes. Out of habit. Or hope. I can’t decide which one is more dangerous.

Your laughter used to echo through this apartment. Now, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of wood—like the place itself is mourning you.

I kept your sweater. The blue one. It still smells like that cologne you wore — the one that smelled like forests and something I could never name. Some nights, I press it to my face and breathe in like I’m drowning.

I don’t cry as much anymore. But I do stare at walls. I think that’s just a quieter way to fall apart.

You told me once that if love was real, it wouldn’t need reminders. But I see you everywhere — in strangers' faces, in the steam of my coffee, in the lines of my palms. If love doesn’t need reminders, why does everything remind me of you?

There are things I never told you. Like how I memorized the way you took your tea. Or how I used to fake sleep just to hear you whisper things you were too afraid to say when I was awake.

You said you needed space. I tried to be generous with it. I gave you galaxies. But I didn’t know I was handing you the distance to disappear.

I walk the long way home now. Past the bookstore we loved. Past the bakery that spelled your name wrong on your birthday cake. These places still exist. But they feel like shadows. I exist in them, but never with you.

Time moves, but I don’t. Not really. My body wakes up, eats, breathes — but my heart is curled up somewhere in the past, wrapped in the moment you looked at me like I was enough.

I’ve started writing letters I’ll never send. They sit in a shoebox beneath my bed, collecting dust and courage. I call it our archive. Someday, maybe, I’ll burn them all. Or maybe I won’t.

My mother asks if I’m okay. I nod. I say yes with my lips while my soul screams no. There’s no language for this kind of ache.

I don’t hate you. I hate how I love you — even now. Especially now.

Sometimes I dream of you. You’re always happy in those dreams. And I’m always just close enough to hear you laugh but too far to touch.

Someone new tried to love me recently. But their hands didn’t know the rhythm of my skin the way yours did. I pulled away before they could find the beat.

I don’t compare them to you. That wouldn’t be fair. You’re not a person anymore — you’re a feeling. A season. A storm I walk into willingly.

If I saw you again, I don’t know what I’d say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe I’d just smile and hope it translated to “I miss you.”

You once told me that people leave, but love doesn’t. You were right. You left. But love stayed. It set up camp in my chest and refused to move.

Some nights, I imagine a version of us in another world. One where timing is kind. One where we’re brave. One where you stay.

I hope you’re well. Truly. I hope you laugh hard, sleep deeply, and wake up loved.

And if ever the wind carries this to you — know that somewhere, quietly and without expectation, I’m still holding space for you.

Somewhere, you still exist.