The Way You Still Haunt Me

It had been seven months since she last heard from him. Not a text. Not a call. Not even one of those silent "likes" on an old memory that people leave when they're thinking about you but aren't brave enough to say it.

Mira told herself she was over it.

She had moved on—or at least, she had learned how to function in his absence. She went to work. She smiled at friends. She even dated someone new for a few weeks. But nothing stuck. Nothing clicked. Because in the quiet moments—when the coffee brewed, or when her fingers hovered over her phone screen at 2AM—his name still sat heavy on her mind.

Rayan was the kind of love that doesn’t let go easily. He wasn’t loud or reckless. He was careful. He listened too well. He remembered the names of her childhood pets, the coffee shop she went to with her dad, the fact that she couldn’t sleep without the fan on, even in winter.

He left without warning.

One evening they were laughing over takeout, her head resting on his chest as the movie played. The next morning, a cold message:

> “I’m sorry, Mira. I can’t do this anymore.”

No explanation. No closure. Just silence.

She tried to hate him. She failed.

Every street corner reminded her of a shared moment. Every favorite song had a line that echoed him. It wasn’t fair how someone could leave and still linger, like the smell of smoke in fabric, impossible to wash out.

Then one afternoon, she saw him.

Not in person—on Instagram. A story. A photo. He was holding hands with someone else. Smiling. Really smiling.

Her chest didn’t break. It crumpled. Quietly. Like paper crushed in a fist.

She didn’t cry immediately. She waited until midnight, when the world was still, and her pain had nowhere to hide.

In that moment, she realized something awful: he hadn’t just left her. He had moved on. And she was still stuck in the space where they had ended.

Mira opened their old chat. The last message sat unread. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.

She typed:

> “I still think about you. More than I should. I wish you’d stayed.”

Then deleted it.

What would be the point?

He was gone. Not just physically, but emotionally. He had packed up every version of himself that belonged to her and gifted it to someone else. And she was left replaying memories like worn-out VHS tapes, hoping they’d feel different this time.

But love doesn’t disappear just because it’s unreturned.

She learned that the hard way.

Some nights, she would lie in bed and pretend she never met him. Just to see if she’d sleep better. But even in her dreams, he found her. Laughing. Smiling. Always out of reach.

She missed the little things most: how he used to say her name like it was a song, how he would kiss her forehead when she was overthinking, the way he believed in her dreams more than she did.

It wasn't about wanting him back.

It was about everything they never got to be.

Mira often wondered if he ever looked back. If he ever heard a song and thought of her. If a scent or a street name ever tugged at his chest like a ghost.

Probably not.

She wasn’t unforgettable. She was just the girl he loved until he didn’t.

And yet, every time the wind picked up and carried the smell of rain, she thought of that one night — when he told her he loved her in the middle of a thunderstorm. No candles. No grand gestures. Just two soaked souls clinging to a moment that would eventually fall apart.

They had promised forever.

But some forevers are liars.

She whispered his name into the dark one last time. Not to call him back. Just to let it go.

But deep down, she knew.

He would always haunt her.

And the worst part?

She didn’t mind.

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