The Last Time I Said Goodbye

The last time I said goodbye,

you were laughing.

Or maybe smiling.

Or maybe I just want to remember it that way.

It was late—

an ordinary Tuesday

with nothing special in its bones.

You leaned against the doorway,

one sock off, one shoe on,

still holding your mug like we had another hour.

I said, “See you later,”

and you said,

“Of course.”

No fanfare. No final words.

Just the weightless comfort of assuming

there would be a next time.

I think about that moment often,

how fragile it was,

how I didn’t know

those three steps toward the door

were steps away from forever.

You didn’t say,

“Goodbye.”

And neither did I.

We never believe the end is the end

until it’s already echoing behind us,

empty and irreversible.

I remember your laugh—

the high kind of laugh that cracked wide open

when something truly caught you off guard.

I remember the way you always

tapped twice on your coffee mug before drinking.

I never asked why.

Maybe I thought there would always be time

for questions.

Time for stories.

Time for forgiveness.

Time for that long talk we were always putting off.

Grief doesn’t arrive like thunder.

It slips in—

quiet as breath—

and settles in your ribcage

like a folded letter

you can’t bring yourself to read.

The first morning without you

felt fake.

I poured two cups of coffee.

Opened your favorite cereal.

Checked my phone

for a message

I knew wouldn’t come.

I played your voicemail five times

just to hear your name.

People say,

“Time heals everything.”

But they forget

that time is also a thief.

It takes your voice.

Your scent.

The rhythm of your footsteps.

It steals until the memory becomes

a museum I walk through

alone.

You left your blue sweater behind.

It still smells like lavender and old bookstores.

Sometimes I wear it

just to remember

what warmth used to feel like.

There are things I never said.

That I loved the way you sang off-key.

That your silence was never awkward—only safe.

That you saved me,

once.

Twice.

Maybe more times than I can count.

There are things I wish I had asked.

Where did you go that one summer night

when you disappeared for hours and came back changed?

Did you ever really forgive me

for what I said that winter?

What were you thinking

the last time you looked at me?

I have become a collector

of “almosts”

and “what ifs.”

They gather dust on my shelves,

and I still don’t know

how to let go

without letting go of you.

The last time I said goodbye

was not enough.

Too short.

Too casual.

Too unaware.

Now I say it again and again,

whispering it into the pillow,

into the wind,

into the quiet where your laughter used to live.

Goodbye.

For the Tuesday that didn’t know it was special.

For the coffee that never cooled.

For the conversation we never had.

For all the time I thought I had

and all the time I didn’t.

If you’re listening,

wherever you are—

in the rustle of leaves,

or the hush between heartbeats—

know this:

I didn’t forget.

I never will.

And this time,

I’m saying it loud enough

for the stars to carry.

Goodbye.

But also:

Thank you.

And:

I love you.

Still.

Always. by azmat