When I Lost My Love

The wind felt colder that morning—not because of the season, but because of the silence you left behind. When I lost my love, time didn’t stop. That’s the cruel part—it kept moving, mocking me with every tick of the clock, dragging me further from the last time you said my name.

We met at a bookstore, of all places. You reached for the same copy of The Little Prince, and our fingers brushed like the universe had planned it all. You smiled and let me take it, but returned a week later to tell me you'd gone back and bought your own copy—just so we’d have something in common. That’s who you were—quietly thoughtful, effortlessly kind.

Falling in love with you felt like coming home after being lost in a storm. There was warmth in your voice, light in your eyes, and laughter that made even the worst days seem survivable. You didn’t just become part of my life—you became the reason for it.

When the doctor called with the results, I remember squeezing your hand so tightly, hoping that if I held on hard enough, the truth would change. But cancer doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t care how good a person you are, or how deeply you are loved. It just takes.

The months that followed were both too long and too short. You fought with grace, never letting fear steal your smile. I watched you lose your hair, your strength, but never your spirit. Even on the worst days, you still found ways to make me laugh. You made me feel strong, when it was you who needed it most.

I didn’t want to believe that goodbye was coming. I convinced myself every breath was another miracle, every sunrise another promise. But love doesn’t stop death—it only softens the landing. And on that final morning, as you lay in our bed with my hand pressed to your heart, I felt the world shift as yours stopped beating.

Grief is a thief. It robs you of joy, of appetite, of sleep. It plays cruel tricks—making me think I heard your voice in the next room, or feel your hand in mine at night. I kept reaching for my phone to text you, only to remember there would be no reply. It broke me in ways I never thought a human could break. I wasn’t just mourning your death—I was mourning our future, the children we’d never raise, the trips we’d never take, the arguments we’d never laugh about afterward.

People tried to help. They brought food, they shared memories, they told me time heals. But they didn’t see me crying in the shower so no one would hear. They didn’t know that some nights, I slept with your scarf just to pretend you were near. Time didn’t heal. It just made the pain quieter, more private.

But somewhere in the silence, something else grew. I started writing letters to you, pouring my heart onto pages you’d never read. I visited the park where we had our first picnic, not to dwell, but to remember. Slowly, your love stopped feeling like a wound and started becoming a part of me again—not as pain, but as presence.

You’re still here, in all the best parts of me. When I comfort a friend, when I see beauty in small things, when I hear The Little Prince quoted, I feel you. Loving you changed me. Losing you broke me. But remembering you is what puts me back together, piece by piece.

I’ll never stop missing you. But I carry you with me, in everything I do. And somehow, that’s enough to keep going.

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