We Promised Forever — But We Meant Different Things

You held my hand when you said it. “Forever.”

And I believed you. God, I believed you with everything in me.

Back then, I thought when two people promised forever, it meant the same thing. A shared vision. A bond strong enough to weather anything. But I was wrong.

We said the same word —

We just meant completely different things.

To me, forever meant growth. Evolution. Sitting across from you at 80 years old and still reaching for your hand like it was the first date. I imagined bad days, yes — but I imagined them with you. Because forever, in my eyes, never meant perfect. It meant staying.

You, on the other hand, meant forever as long as it didn’t hurt.

As long as it didn’t challenge you.

As long as the honeymoon feeling still buzzed under your skin.

As long as I didn’t ask for more than you were willing to give.

I didn’t realize the cracks until they became canyons.

At first, it was just a shift in the way you said goodnight.

Then it was the way your phone became more important than my presence.

The way you stopped noticing when I was quiet — or worse, didn’t care.

You were there, but you weren’t with me.

And I still held on.

I held on because forever meant patience to me.

It meant forgiving missteps and choosing each other — even on the hard days.

Especially on the hard days.

But you were slipping through my fingers like sand,

and I was too in love with the memory of us to see the reality of you.

When I finally asked you if something was wrong, you said,

“I don’t feel like I used to.”

And I nodded — even though my heart was shattering into pieces too small to pick up.

What was I supposed to say?

“Try harder”?

“Remember how you once looked at me like I was everything?”

“Remember how you promised forever and made me believe you actually meant it?”

You didn’t try. You just… stopped.

And I stayed.

Longer than I should have.

Quieter than I should have.

Smaller than I ever thought I’d let myself become.

Because I kept hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’d remember the version of us that was good.

That deserved forever.

But the truth is, forever doesn’t end with a bang.

It ends with the quiet choice not to care anymore.

You said you needed space.

I gave it.

You said you needed time.

I gave that too.

But you never came back.

And so I sat alone with all your promises echoing through the walls we built together.

Walls you walked away from.

Walls I’m still rebuilding — alone.

Now, when people ask me why we ended, I tell them:

“We promised forever — but we meant different things.”

Because you said forever like it was a song.

And I said it like it was a vow.

You meant forever until someone else smiled at you in a way that reminded you of freedom.

I meant forever even when it got messy, even when it stopped feeling magical, even when it hurt.

I think that’s the hardest part.

Not that you left.

Not even that you fell out of love.

But that I stayed long enough to mean it,

and you stayed just long enough to pretend you did.

I don’t hate you. I want to — but I don’t.

I just wish you had been honest with yourself before you promised something you were never willing to give.

And maybe that’s on me, too — for believing that people understand love the same way.

I now know better.

Forever isn’t a word you say.

It’s something you prove.

Every day. Especially when it stops being easy.

So this is me, letting go.

Not of the memories — I’ll always carry those.

But of the hope that you’ll come back.

Of the idea that love like ours could have lasted.

Of the illusion that we were meant for the same kind of forever.

Because we weren’t.

You wanted something beautiful.

I wanted something real.

And those aren’t the same thing.