The Echo of Your Name

I still walk the path we once wandered, the one that curves along the lake and disappears into the woods. It hasn’t changed much—same moss-covered stones, same rustle of leaves overhead—but without you, it feels like walking through a memory instead of a place.

Your name lingers here.

It’s in the whisper of wind through the trees, in the hush of twilight when the sun begins to sink behind the hills. I hear it in the silence between birdsong and breeze. It’s faint, barely there, but I hear it. I always do.

We met in the kind of moment that felt like it could only belong to us. I was sketching by the water, you were chasing your dog through the grass, both of us strangers on the edge of something extraordinary. You laughed when your dog stole my pencil. That laugh—it pulled something open in me, something I didn’t know was closed. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. And that was enough.

What followed was a season of stolen hours and soft confessions. Coffee shops, long walks, old records, books exchanged with scribbled notes in the margins. I remember every glance, every pause, every almost-touch that made the air hum. But even then, we were haunted by timing—both of us tethered to separate lives we couldn’t simply undo.

You were moving across the country for a job you’d worked years for. I was tied to family, to obligations I couldn't walk away from. We promised to stay in touch. And we did. For a while.

Letters turned to calls. Calls to silence. Time, that silent thief, crept in and took what it wanted. New cities. New jobs. People who were almost what we needed. But not quite. Never quite.

And yet, you were never gone. Not really.

I kept your letters in a wooden box beneath my bed. I reread them on rainy days, or nights when I woke up from dreams of you. I saved the photo of us taken by a stranger near the bookstore—our smiles caught mid-laughter, your arm around me like it belonged there. And it did.

I used to think I’d move on. That time would dull the ache. That eventually, your name wouldn’t echo anymore. But love like that doesn’t vanish. It changes shape, settles into the bones. Becomes part of the way I see the world.

Sometimes, when I walk this path, I pretend I’ll turn the corner and see you sitting on that old bench, waiting for me. You’d stand up, hands in your pockets, smiling like no time had passed. We’d talk about everything and nothing. We’d speak the words we never dared say back then.

But you’re not there. You never are.

I heard you got married. Someone kind, they said. Someone who makes you laugh. I hope she loves your awkward dancing, your rambling stories, the way you overthink everything. I hope she sees the way your eyes light up when you talk about the stars.

I hope she hears the same laugh that once changed my world.

As for me, I live quietly. I teach art at the community center. I keep a kettle warm and a book half-read. Some might call it lonely, but I’ve found peace in the stillness. In the memories. In the echo of your name that still fills the empty spaces.

Do I regret not chasing you? Sometimes. But love isn’t always about holding on. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to let go—with grace, with gratitude. We didn’t fail. We loved within the time we had, and maybe that was all we were meant to do.

Still, if I had one more moment, just one more day, I’d tell you what I never had the courage to say:

You were the love I waited my whole life to find.

And I never really stopped waiting.

The wind picks up, carrying with it a scent of rain and something else—something familiar. I close my eyes and listen. There it is again. Soft. Lingering. Unmistakable.

Your name.

And for a breathless second, it’s as if you’re here.