We Were Almost Forever

We were supposed to go to Florence that summer. We’d bookmarked cafés near the Duomo, imagined getting lost in back alleys with gelato in hand, and promised to kiss on the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. We even joked that Italy would be our “trial run” for the rest of our lives.

We never made it to Florence.

We never even made it to July.

I still remember the morning she left me—because there was no thunder, no fight, no screaming.

Just a text.

*"We need to talk. I’m sorry."*

That’s all it said.

I read it three times, then once more in case I had missed something in between the words. She was supposed to come over that night. We were planning on making risotto together—something we'd failed at twice but laughed about every time. It was *our* dish.

But instead, she walked into my apartment like a stranger.

Her eyes were tired. Her hands were shaking.

And when she said the words—*“I can’t do this anymore”*—they felt like a foreign language I didn’t understand.

We had been together for almost three years. We knew each other's coffee orders, childhood traumas, and the exact way we each liked to be held when the world got too heavy.

We had our songs, our Netflix list, our rituals. She hated the sound of people chewing, so I always turned on music during dinner. I hated silence before bed, so she always hummed something soft as I drifted off.

We had routines that felt like forever.

We had love that felt like home.

But somewhere, without me noticing, she had started packing her emotional bags. Slowly. Quietly.

Until one day, she was gone—emotionally, then physically.

I asked her why.

She didn’t have an answer she could give me without breaking. She just said, *“Something inside me changed. I didn’t want it to. I tried to fix it. But I can’t keep pretending.”*

She cried. I cried harder. I asked if there was someone else.

There wasn’t.

I asked if she’d been unhappy.

She didn’t know.

I asked if she still loved me.

She whispered, *“I think part of me always will.”*

That was somehow the most painful part.

That she didn’t leave because of betrayal. Or cruelty. Or something I could blame.

She left because something shifted inside her. Something silent, invisible, but powerful enough to break the very thing we’d spent years building together.

It was like losing someone to a disease you never saw coming. No symptoms. No warning signs. Just... gone.

The days after were a blur of unwashed dishes, half-eaten takeout, and checking my phone too many times.

I kept typing messages I never sent:

> *“I still made coffee for two this morning.”*

> *“Your sweater still smells like you.”*

> *“I miss the way you looked at me like I was a lighthouse.”*

But what’s the point of sending anything when they’ve already boarded a ship you weren’t invited on?

People talk about closure like it’s a door you can just shut once you say the right goodbye.

But what if the door was ripped off its hinges?

What if closure isn’t a moment, but a slow, painful process of learning how to breathe again in a room that still smells like their perfume?

It’s been eight months now.

I don’t cry every night anymore.

But sometimes I still flinch when I hear our favorite song in a café. Or when I see someone with her haircut. Or when I pass the bookstore where we once spent hours reading poetry to each other.

I don’t hate her. I don’t even resent her.

I just miss the version of life where she was still mine.

They say we mourn people like we mourn the dead.

But what no one tells you is that mourning someone who is still alive—someone who might be smiling at a stranger, or tasting wine in Florence, or falling in love again—is its own special kind of grief.

Because she’s still out there. Breathing.

Just not with me.

But I’ve started writing again. Short poems. Fragments. Things she always said I was too shy to share.

I’ve started seeing friends again. Laughing again.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days are okay. Some days are heavy.

But every day, I wake up and remind myself:

We didn’t end because of hate.

We ended because life is unpredictable. Because people change. Because not every “forever” makes it all the way.

And sometimes, the most beautiful love stories are the ones that *almost* lasted.

## *We were almost forever. And that will always mean something.*