to the person I have been mourning in pieces

I was cruel to you.‌ there. I have written it down at last.

I loved you as if loving you meant I had the right to every part of you. every hour. every name in your phone. every person you smiled at when I wasn't there. I wanted to know where you were, who you were with, what you were thinking. I wanted your world to have no doors I couldn't open.

and you let me. i wish you hadn't.

I mistook your patience for permission. I mistook your staying for proof that I was right. every time you forgave me, I became a little more certain that I could hurt you and still be loved afterward.

I remember the jealousy now. how ugly it was.

how I could turn your happiness into evidence against you. how I could hear you laugh with someone else and spend the rest of the night convincing myself that I was losing you.

you were never mine to lose.

i know that now. that is the sentence that follows me everywhere.

I would give anything to hear you say my name again, and then I think of all the times you said it softly, asking me to stop, asking me to trust you, asking me to love you without closing my hands around your throat.

and I didn't understand. i understand now.

that is the cruelest thing about losing you. there is no one left to become better for.

so here I am, loving you properly at last, in the only way you cannot feel. by letting you go.

by admitting that you were always free. by wishing, with everything I have left, that I had learned that before you disappeared from my life.

i loved you so much. I love you so much. I just wish I had known how to love you without making it hurt.

to my dearest sunlight.‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌

the guns have been quiet for three nights. I thought silence would feel like mercy. It doesn't.

It only gives me enough room to hear everything I have been trying not to remember.

I still have your last letter. the paper has gone soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. I know every crease by heart. I know where your handwriting becomes smaller when you are trying not to say something.

you told me to come home. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

there are nights here when the smoke settles low over the ground and the whole world looks like it has been rubbed away with a dirty thumb. those are the nights I think of your kitchen. the chipped cup you hated. the little window above the sink. the way morning used to find you before it found me.

I never knew a person could miss a room. I never knew I could miss the sound of someone putting down a cup.

everyone here talks about surviving as if it is the same thing as returning. It isn't.

some part of me has already gone home to you. some part of me never will.

tonight, I tore open your letter again just to see your name. I held it near the fire, but I couldn't make myself burn it.

It felt too much like killing the last thing in this world that still knew me. so I folded it carefully.

I put it back inside my coat. and for a little while I pretended that when this is over, I will walk through our door, put my things down, and find you waiting there.

I know better. but let me have the lie tonight. the night is cold. the fire is almost gone.

and somewhere beyond all this smoke, I still love you. and I will always do.

به تو، که نمی‌دانم چه‌چیزی خطابت کنم.

نمی‌دانم چند ساعت است اینجا نشسته‌ام، فقط می‌دانم آن‌قدر گذشته که هوا سرد شده و پاهایم دیگر گرمایشان را از دست داده‌اند، اما هنوز نتوانسته‌ام خودم را راضی کنم که از کنار اسمت بلند شوم و به خانه برگردم، به همان خانه‌ای که بعد از رفتنت دیگر هیچ‌وقت شبیه خانه نبود.

دستم را روی سنگ قبرت گذاشته‌ام و با انگشت‌هایم حروف اسمت را دنبال می‌کنم، انگار اگر آن‌ها را به اندازه‌ی کافی لمس کنم، چیزی از تو از زیر این سنگ به دستم می‌رسد؛ یک تکه از صدایت، گرمای دستت، یا حتی همان نگاه خسته‌ای که همیشه وقتی زیادی حرف می‌زدم به من می‌کردی.

همه می‌گویند باید بروم، و شاید حق با آن‌ها باشد، اما هیچ‌کس نمی‌فهمد وقتی آدم کسی را از دست می‌دهد، دیگر «رفتن» معنای سابقش را ندارد؛ من از اینجا می‌روم و تو همچنان همین‌جا می‌مانی، و بعد باید تمام مسیر برگشت را با این فکر تحمل کنم که هر قدمی که از قبرت دور می‌شوم، یک قدم دیگر از تو فاصله می‌گیرم.

گاهی با خودم فکر می‌کنم اگر فقط دست‌هایم را زیر خاک ببرم و کمی آن را کنار بزنم، شاید هنوز بتوانم به تو برسم، شاید هنوز آن‌قدر نزدیک باشی که وقتی کنارت می‌نشینم، برای چند لحظه فراموش کنم که دیگر نمی‌توانی چشم‌هایت را باز کنی و نگاهم کنی.

می‌دانم فکر وحشتناکی است، اما امشب حتی از فکر کردن به آن هم نمی‌ترسم؛ حتی با خودم فکر کرده‌ام که شاید باید همین خاک را کنار بزنم و جایی کنار تو دراز بکشم، نه برای اینکه بخواهم به دنبال تو بیایم، فقط برای اینکه دیگر مجبور نباشم هر شب در اتاقی بخوابم که جای خالی تو از خودم بزرگ‌تر شده است.

شاید اگر کنار تو باشم، این سکوت کمتر اذیتم کند.

شاید اگر بدانم چند سانتی‌متر خاک بین ماست، بتوانم با آن کنار بیایم، چون تحمل این‌که تمام دنیا بین ما فاصله انداخته خیلی سخت‌تر است.

نمی‌دانم هنوز دوستت دارم یا نه، و از گفتن این جمله خجالت می‌کشم، چون فکر می‌کردم عشق باید چیزی باشد که بعد از مرگ هم واضح بماند، چیزی که آدم درباره‌اش شک نکند، اما حالا که تو نیستی، حتی احساسات خودم هم برایم غریبه شده‌اند و نمی‌دانم کدام قسمتشان متعلق به توست و کدام قسمت فقط ترس من از تنها ماندن است.

گاهی دلم برای خودت تنگ می‌شود و گاهی برای آدمی که کنار تو بودم، و نمی‌توانم تشخیص بدهم کدام درد بیشتر است.

دلم برای صدایت تنگ شده، برای راه رفتنت در خانه، برای اینکه بدون اینکه بفهمی لیوانت را از روی میز برمی‌داشتم و جایش می‌گذاشتم، برای تمام چیزهای کوچکی که آن موقع حتی ارزش به خاطر سپردن نداشتند و حالا حاضر بودم تمام عمرم را بدهم تا فقط یک بار دیگر اتفاق بیفتند.

کاش می‌دانستم آخرین باری که دیدمت، آخرین بار است. کاش بیشتر نگاهت می‌کردم.

کاش آن روز به جای اینکه فکر کنم فردا هم هست، چند دقیقه بیشتر کنارت می‌ماندم و به صورتت نگاه می‌کردم، چون حالا تمام چیزی که از آن روز برایم مانده، چند تصویر شکسته است که هرچه بیشتر سعی می‌کنم نگهشان دارم، بیشتر از هم می‌پاشند.

من از فراموش کردنت بیشتر از نبودنت می‌ترسم.

می‌ترسم یک روز صدایت را دیگر درست به یاد نیاورم، یا صورتت را آن‌طور که بود نبینم، یا یک صبح از خواب بیدار شوم و اولین چیزی که به ذهنم می‌رسد دیگر تو نباشی و آن وقت بفهمم که حتی غم هم می‌تواند آدم را ترک کند.

برای همین هنوز اینجا نشسته‌ام.

شاید چون این قبر تنها جایی است که می‌توانم مطمئن باشم تو را فراموش نکرده‌ام.

پس اگر امشب دیر کردم، اگر دوباره کسی آمد و گفت باید بروم، شاید فقط سرم را پایین بیندازم و بگویم هنوز حرفم تمام نشده، چون راستش را بخواهی، من حتی نمی‌دانم چه می‌خواهم بگویم.

فقط می‌خواهم اینجا بمانم.

کنار تو، کنار این خاک سرد، و برای چند ساعت وانمود کنم که فاصله‌ی بین ما چیزی نیست که نمی‌توانم با دست‌هایم کنار بزنمش. شاید فردا برگردم.

شاید فردا بتوانم بلند شوم و بروم.

اما امشب، اگر قرار باشد فقط یک شب دیگر را به تو نزدیک باشم، می‌خواهم همین‌جا بمانم و دستم را روی خاک بگذارم و تصور کنم که آن طرفش، تو هنوز جایی نزدیک منی.

to the one who was mine.‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

I still hate the way you looked at me that night. not because you were afraid.

because you weren't. you stood by the door with your coat already on, telling me that you couldn't do this anymore, and I remember thinking how beautiful you looked when you had finally stopped pretending to love me.

i asked you where you were going. you said, “Away.”

Such a small word. i have hated it ever since.

i wanted to tell you that I could change. I wanted to promise you mornings without arguments, nights without questions, a life where I wouldn't need to know where you were every second of the day. I wanted to become the kind of person you could love without feeling trapped.

but you were already reaching for the door.

and I couldn't let you. i know what that makes me.

don't think I haven't spent every night since then thinking about it. I remember your face. I remember the last thing you said to me. I remember how badly I wanted to hear you say that you loved me one more time.

you didn't. i suppose that should have been enough.

but I have never been very good at letting you go. i kept everything you left behind.

your sweater is still hanging in the wardrobe. your cup is still on the kitchen shelf. I haven't moved anything because somehow moving your things feels more final than losing you did.

sometimes I still talk to you. i tell you about my day. i tell you when it rains.

I tell you that I finally learned how to make the coffee the way you liked it. and sometimes I tell you that I'm sorry.

i don't know if you would forgive me. i don't even know if I want you to.

because the ugliest truth is that, even now, after all this time, there is a part of me that is relieved you cannot leave me again.

you can't fall in love with someone else. you can't wake up one morning and decide that I am no longer enough.

you can't stand at the door with your coat in your hands and say away.

you are mine in the only way I ever knew how to make you stay.

i told everyone you left me. they believed me.

you were always so good at disappearing and I suppose I finally learned from you.

i buried the letter you left behind, i buried the photographs and i buried the truth.

and tomorrow, when they ask me again where you went, I will give them the same answer I have given for years.

you wanted a life without me. and I couldn't bear to give it to you.

to you, wherever the years have taken you

I still miss you in places where I shouldn't. I miss you when the kettle begins to whistle, because you used to complain that I always let it boil too long. I miss you when it rains against the windows, when the streetlights come on one by one, when I wake up in the middle of the night and, for one terrible second, forget that there is no one beside me.

that second is the worst.
bcause for that tiny piece of time, I have you back.

then I reach across the bed, and there is only cold linen beneath my hand, and I remember.

I remember everything.

I remember how your voice sounded when you were tired. I remember the way you would say my name when you wanted me to listen. I remember how you used to fall asleep halfway through a conversation and deny it when I told you the next morning.

I remember things I never thought I would miss. I would give almost anything to hear you complain about something meaningless again.

Isn't that cruel?

When you were here i thought I had forever to remember you. I thought there would always be another morning, another conversation, another night when I could look at you and think, I'll tell you tomorrow.

I have so many tomorrows now but none of them have you in them.

sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me.

not in some grand, tragic way. I don't need you to ache for me. I just want to know whether, somewhere in the middle of an ordinary day, something still reminds you of the life we had.

a song. a certain kind of weather. the smell of someone's perfume passing you in the street.

anything.

I want to believe I exist somewhere outside my own memory.

because lately I am afraid that I don't.

everyone else has continued living, and I have continued too, I suppose, but there is a strange difference between moving forward and actually leaving something behind.

I never left you behind.

I just learned how to carry you without anyone noticing.

I carry you through grocery stores and crowded streets and quiet mornings. I carry you into conversations where nobody knows why I suddenly go silent. I carry you home every night and place you carefully beside me in the dark, where no one can see how much I still miss you.

and sometimes, when I am almost asleep, I let myself believe that you are there.

I imagine your breathing beside me. I imagine turning toward you.

I imagine saying, I missed you and then morning comes.

It always does.

that is the part I hate most. not that you are gone but that the world keeps becoming morning without you.

i wish I could tell you that it gets easier. maybe it does.

maybe I am simply getting better at hiding the wound.

but there are still nights when I would trade every year I have left just to have five minutes with you again.

five minutes. I wouldn't ask for forever. I wouldn't even ask you to stay.

I would just sit beside you and look at you long enough to memorize your face one more time.

then I would let you go.

I think. God, I hope I could.

because the truth is, I have spent so long missing you that sometimes I cannot remember who I was before I knew what it meant to lose someone I would have chosen every single time.

and if there is any place where you can hear this, if somehow these words can cross whatever distance has grown between us, then I hope you know one thing.

I loved you. I love you.

I don't know which tense is supposed to be correct anymore.

I only know that every version of me, in every life I can imagine, still turns toward you. and every time, there is nothing there.

only the empty side of the bed. only the morning. only me, waking up again.

to you, the person i mourn the most everyday.

I have spent so many nights trying to remember who I was before you, but every time I look back, all I can find is you, scattered through everything I became; I gave you my time, my plans, my sleep, my friends, every little dream I once kept only for myself, and I gave it all so willingly that I never noticed how much of me was disappearing until you were gone and I realized I had built my whole life around someone who could no longer come home. I still keep your things where you left them, still turn my head when I hear footsteps in the hallway, still wake in the middle of the night and reach toward the empty side of the bed before remembering, and sometimes I hate myself for how easily my heart still believes you might come back.

I sit beside your grave whenever the world becomes too loud, pressing my hand against the cold stone and wondering whether you would be angry with me for wanting to follow you, because I don't know what to do with all this love now that there is nowhere for it to go; I have spent so long giving everything to you that I don't know what is left for me, and some nights I am frightened by how little I care about finding out, but then I remember the way you used to look at me when you wanted me to keep going, and somehow that memory is still enough to make me stay a little longer. I wish I could tell you that I am ready to let you go, but I would be lying, and maybe tonight I don't want to lie to you anymore, so I'll just sit here beneath the dark sky and talk to you until the night becomes morning, pretending for a little while that somewhere beneath all this silence, you can still hear me.

to you the prettiest cloud in the dark misty sky

I haven't spoken to anyone in weeks, and I don't think anyone has noticed enough to ask anymore; I spend most of my days in my room with the curtains half closed, brushing and rebraiding my hair whenever my hands begin to shake, because there is something comforting about having a small thing I can undo and do again, something that doesn't disappear no matter how many times I pull it apart. Your face is everywhere here, not in photographs, because I was afraid photographs would eventually feel unfamiliar, but in the pages of my notebooks, where I have drawn you so many times that the shape of your eyes has become something my hands remember better than my mind does. I draw you from memory every night, and every night something is wrong; sometimes your smile is too wide, sometimes your eyes look like a stranger's, sometimes I forget the exact shape of your mouth and sit there with the pencil hovering over the page, terrified that this is how forgetting begins, quietly, with one little detail that I can no longer return to.

I wonder what you would think if you could see me now, sitting on the floor with my hair falling over my shoulders, surrounded by half-finished drawings of the face I am terrified of losing, while the rest of the world keeps knocking softly at a door I haven't opened in a very long time. I don't answer them because I don't know how to explain that talking about you makes you feel less real somehow, as though saying your name aloud will turn you into a story instead of the person who used to sit beside me, and I would rather keep you here in the silence where I can still pretend that I know you. So I keep drawing, and I keep braiding my hair, and I keep filling page after page with your eyes, your hands, the little crease beside your mouth when you smiled, trying to make something permanent out of a memory that refuses to stay still, because if I can draw you perfectly just once, perhaps I can finally close the notebook and believe that I have saved you somewhere.

to my first, but for the last time. ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌

this is the first letter I have ever written you, which is almost funny when you think about how much I used to talk; I could fill an entire afternoon telling you absolutely nothing, jumping from one story to another, dragging you outside because the sun was out, buying you things you didn't need, making you laugh when you were trying not to, and somehow I always had enough energy for one more song, one more walk, one more hour with you, as if being beside you had turned my body into something that didn't understand exhaustion. You used to call me your little energy drink, and I would laugh every time, never imagining that one day I would become someone who walks through the same streets with tears running down their face and doesn't even notice when people stare.

I don't know how to write to you because I have never had to speak to someone who couldn't interrupt me, couldn't roll their eyes when I rambled, couldn't reach over and wipe my tears before I could pretend I wasn't crying; I keep wanting to tell you everything that happened today, something stupid I saw in a shop window, the song that came on while I was walking, the way the sky looked before it rained, and then I remember that there is nowhere to bring all these little pieces of my life anymore. So this is my first letter, and I suppose it is also the first time I have ever had to admit that I am tired, that I don't feel like being bright for anyone, that I would give anything to hear you tell me to stop crying because you know perfectly well I will ignore you anyway, and that the person who used to bring all that light into your life is now walking home through the dark with your name in their head, crying so hard they can barely see where they are going, carrying all this love with nowhere left to put it.

to the only person who ever saw me without my armor,

everyone keeps telling me how strong I am, and I have started to hate them for it, because they say it as though strength is something I can simply put on in the morning, button beneath my collar, and carry around until everyone is satisfied that I am still myself. They don't know that I have spent my whole life learning how to swallow the things that hurt, how to keep my voice steady when everything inside me is shaking, how to become the person everyone else could lean against when their own legs gave out, and they certainly don't know that there was only ever one place where I allowed myself to be tired, frightened, stupidly sentimental and completely unguarded, and that place was beside you.

You were the only person who could look at me and know when I was pretending, the only one who could take my hand without asking what was wrong because you already knew, and I think that is what hurts most now, not simply that you are gone, but that there is no one left who knows the version of me that existed when I didn't have to be strong. I still catch myself reaching for you after a difficult day, still turn toward the other side of the bed when something happens that I know only you would understand, and every time I remember that I am alone, there is this strange little silence inside me where your voice used to be. I have cried for you, but only behind locked doors, with the lights off and my face buried in the pillow, because some habits are difficult to break even when there is no one left to hide from; then I wash my face, straighten my clothes, answer when people ask if I am alright, and become the person they remember again.

But you knew better.

You knew that sometimes I needed to be held without being asked to explain myself, that sometimes I wanted to be allowed to fall apart without having someone call me broken, and I wish more than anything that I could have one more night with you, not to say anything important or beautiful, but simply to lie beside you and let myself be soft again, because I am so tired of being the person everyone thinks can survive anything, and I would give almost anything to hear you say my name in that quiet way you had, the way that always made me feel, for a moment, that I didn't have to survive anything at all.

to the love I was never ready to lose‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌

I miss you in ways I don't know how to explain, because it isn't only your voice or your hands or the way you looked at me, it is everything that existed because you were here, the quiet mornings, the stupid conversations, the feeling that somewhere in the world there was a person I could always return to. Now I walk through my days carrying memories of things I never thought I'd have to miss, and sometimes I catch myself turning toward you before remembering that there is nowhere for me to turn anymore.

I wish I had known how temporary you were, because I would have looked at you longer, held your hand more carefully, listened to every meaningless story as though it were the last one you would ever tell me. I would have memorized your laugh, your voice, the little things you did without noticing, because now I would give anything for one ordinary day with you again, not a perfect goodbye, not some final beautiful moment, just you beside me while the world carried on around us.

people tell me time will make it easier, but I don't want easier if it means losing pieces of you along the way, because this ache is the closest thing I have left to having you, and sometimes I would rather carry the pain of remembering you than wake up one morning and realize I can no longer remember exactly what it felt like to love you.

برای تو که هنوز دلم به برگشتنت خوش است

نمی‌دانم چطور باید به کسی نامه بنویسم که دیگر هیچ راهی برای رسیدن به او ندارم، اما باز هم هر شب می‌نشینم و کلمات را کنار هم می‌چینم، شاید چون نوشتن تنها کاری است که می‌توانم بکنم تا نبودنت برای چند دقیقه شبیه یک حقیقت قطعی به نظر نرسد. هنوز گاهی صدایت می‌کنم، خیلی آرام، طوری که انگار اگر بلندتر بگویم، دنیا مجبور می‌شود جوابم را بدهد، و بعد چند ثانیه منتظر می‌مانم؛ همان چند ثانیه‌ای که همیشه در آن امید احمقانه‌ای در دلم جان می‌گیرد که شاید این بار صدای قدم‌هایت را بشنوم، شاید در باز شود و تو همان‌طور که همیشه بودی وارد شوی و من مجبور شوم برای تمام این مدت که نبودنت را باور کرده‌ام از تو عذر بخواهم.

دلم برایت آن‌قدر تنگ شده که دیگر نمی‌توانم بفهمم دلتنگی کجایش تمام می‌شود و زندگی از کجا دوباره شروع می‌شود؛ تو در همه‌چیز مانده‌ای، در فنجانی که هنوز بی‌اختیار برای دو نفر چای می‌ریزم، در آهنگی که هنوز قبل از رسیدن قسمت مورد علاقه‌ات خاموشش می‌کنم، در خیابان‌هایی که وقتی از کنارشان رد می‌شوم ناخودآگاه دنبال قد و قامتت میان آدم‌ها می‌گردم، و حتی در خواب‌هایم که در آن‌ها هنوز زنده‌ای و من آن‌قدر خوشحالم که وقتی بیدار می‌شوم چند لحظه طول می‌کشد تا یادم بیاید چرا این‌همه درد در سینه‌ام جمع شده است.

من هنوز با تو حرف می‌زنم، می‌دانی؟ از چیزهای کوچک شروع می‌کنم و بعد ناگهان می‌بینم ساعت‌ها گذشته و تمام مدت داشته‌ام برای تو تعریف می‌کردم که روزم چطور گذشته، انگار هنوز همان آدمی هستی که می‌توانستم آخر شب همه‌چیز را برایش بگویم و مطمئن باشم جایی میان حرف‌هایم خسته نمی‌شوی و نمی‌روی. شاید این کار احمقانه باشد، اما اگر قرار باشد بین احمق بودن و فراموشت کردن یکی را انتخاب کنم، باز هم همین را انتخاب می‌کنم؛ چون من هنوز نمی‌توانم زندگی‌ای را تصور کنم که در آن دلتنگت نباشم، و شاید دردناک‌ترین قسمت ماجرا همین باشد که دنیا دارد از من می‌خواهد نبودنت را بپذیرم، در حالی که تمام وجودم هنوز، با سماجتی که از خودم هم خجالت می‌کشم، منتظر توست.

کاش فقط یک بار دیگر می‌توانستم ببینمت، حتی اگر فقط برای چند دقیقه، حتی اگر هیچ حرفی نمی‌زدی و فقط روبه‌رویم می‌ایستادی تا مطمئن شوم چهره‌ات را درست به یاد آورده‌ام؛ آن وقت شاید می‌توانستم بالاخره بفهمم با این همه عشقی که هنوز برایت دارم چه کار باید بکنم، چون تو رفتی و عشق نرفت، و حالا تمام این عشق در من مانده، بی‌صاحب و بی‌راه، مثل نامه‌ای که آدرسش را می‌داند اما دیگر هیچ پستی در این دنیا نیست که آن را به دست تو برساند.

to the one who should have been here ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

there are so many things that have happened since you left that I have wanted to tell you about, and sometimes I still turn toward the empty side of the room with the beginning of a story already on my tongue, only to remember that there is no longer anyone there who knows why it matters. I wonder if you would have liked the rain we had last week, or the little café that opened near the corner, or the song I heard yesterday that sounded so much like the kind of thing you would have played until I hated it, and it breaks something in me to realize that the world has continued producing new things for you to never see.

I think that is what hurts most, not simply that I lost you, but that I keep living through moments you will never know existed; birthdays you weren't there for, sunsets you never saw, jokes I couldn't tell you, mornings when I woke up and for a brief, terrible second forgot that I was alone. I have become a collector of things I cannot give you, storing little pieces of my life as though one day I might finally find a way to place them in your hands and say, look, this happened while you were gone, and I thought of you.

Sometimes I am afraid that one day I will stop doing that, that I will see something beautiful and my first thought will no longer be you, and perhaps that is the part of grief nobody warns you about: the possibility that healing might feel like betrayal. So I keep your name in the quietest parts of my life, where no one can take it from me, and when the night becomes unbearable, I let myself imagine that somewhere beyond all the distance between us, you are still listening, still knowing me, still understanding why I cannot quite learn how to live as though you were never here.

If I could have one thing from you, I wouldn't ask for another lifetime or even another year, because those things feel too impossible now; I would ask for one ordinary evening, one where neither of us knows it is precious, where you are beside me and the hours pass without asking anything of us, where I can look at you without knowing that one day I will have to remember the exact shape of your face instead of waking up to it.

I think I could survive losing you again.

What I cannot bear is the thought that there will someday be a world in which I no longer miss you.

to the one who still lives in my kitchen‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

I made pancakes this morning and, without thinking, poured enough batter for two, because apparently my hands have not learned what my heart has been forced to learn; I still reach for the second plate, still leave the better piece at the edge of the pan because you always liked the ones that browned a little too much, and I still turn around when the kettle clicks off as if you are going to come wandering in, sleepy and smiling, asking why I am making so much noise this early.

I baked the cake you used to love yesterday, the one I always pretended was too sweet, and the whole kitchen smelled like butter and vanilla and the afternoons we wasted together, when you would sit on the counter and steal pieces of fruit while I complained that you were ruining the recipe. I kept looking toward the doorway while it was in the oven, waiting for you to appear and ask whether it was ready yet, and when I finally took it out, I cut two slices without thinking; yours stayed untouched until the frosting began to dry.

sometimes I think this is how I keep you alive, not through photographs or old letters, but through these ridiculous little habits that refuse to die with you. I still buy the cereal you liked, still make tea the way you taught me, still put on music while I cook because you hated how quiet the kitchen became without it, and sometimes I catch myself laughing at something you would have said before remembering that there is no one here to hear me laugh.

the worst part is that I don't even want to stop.

let the extra plate stay on the table. Let the second cup grow cold. Let me keep making too much food for someone who will never come through that door again, because for a few minutes, while the pancakes are warm and the kitchen smells like sugar and coffee, I can pretend you are only late.

and perhaps that is enough for tonight.

I will leave your slice on the counter, just in case, and when the house goes quiet, I will sit across from it and tell you about my day as though you are still listening, because loving you has become such an ordinary part of me that even your absence has learned how to live here.

to the one the sea still reminds me of‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

i came here again today, to the same stretch of shore where we used to sit until our clothes smelled like salt and your hair became impossible to untangle, and I watched the waves come in with the same careless rhythm they had when you were alive, as though the ocean never noticed that one of the people who loved it was no longer here to see it. I used to think there was something comforting about the sea, how it could hold so much and still look endless, but now I only find it cruel, because everything keeps moving here, the water, the clouds, the people walking along the shore, while I am still standing in the exact place where I lost you.

I brought your sweater with me today, though I don't know why, because it doesn't smell like you anymore and I have washed it so many times that I have probably erased the last trace of you without meaning to. Still, I held it against my chest when the wind became cold, and for a moment I remembered how you used to complain about the weather and then refuse to leave, insisting that the cold made the ocean look prettier. I wanted to laugh when I remembered that, but the sound never made it out, and I stood there with your sweater in my hands wondering how something as simple as a memory could hurt more than any goodbye.

I think I finally understand why I keep coming back here; it isn't because I expect to find you, and it isn't because I believe the sea kept some part of you for me, it is only because this is the last place where I remember being completely happy with you, before I knew that happiness could become something you mourn instead of something you return to.

so I will sit here until the sun disappears, and I will let the water erase our footprints as it always did, pretending that somewhere beneath all that endless blue, the world has kept a version of us that time cannot reach, a version where you are still beside me, complaining about the cold, laughing at my silence, and asking me why I keep looking at you as though I am afraid you might disappear.

I wish I had known to answer you.

to you, somewhere between the trees‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

i came into the jungle because I thought I needed to be somewhere you had never been, somewhere untouched by the rooms we shared and the streets that still remember our footsteps, but somehow you are here too, or at least I keep finding pieces of you everywhere I look; in the movement of the leaves, in the damp air against my skin, in the distant sound of water moving through the dark, and every time a branch breaks somewhere behind me I turn around with my heart already reaching for you, convinced that this time it will really be you standing there, smiling at me as though I have only been gone for an afternoon.

I have been crying so much that I don't know when I started, and now the tears feel almost ordinary, running down my face while I sit beneath these enormous trees with mud on my hands and your name caught somewhere in my throat. I keep talking to you because the silence here is too large to bear, telling you about the birds I can't name, the rain that came down so suddenly, the strange flowers growing beside the path, and sometimes I swear you answer me, not with words exactly, but with the rustling above me or the sound of footsteps disappearing into the undergrowth, and I know I should understand that it is only the jungle, only wind and water and my own exhausted mind trying desperately to put you somewhere I can still reach you.

but then the sun comes through the leaves in exactly the way you used to love, and for one impossible moment I see your face between the branches, so clear that I forget how to breathe, and I start walking toward you before I remember that you are gone, that there is no version of this world where you are waiting for me at the end of the path. Still, I follow the shape of you deeper into the trees, crying your name like if I say it enough times the jungle might finally give you back, and perhaps that is what I have become now, someone wandering through a world that keeps changing around them, looking for a person who exists only in the places where love has refused to leave.

tonight I will sit here until the rain comes again, and if I hear you beside me, I think I will let myself believe it, just for a little while, because I am tired of being the only one who knows that you are gone, and for one night I would rather be foolish enough to believe that when the leaves move behind me, it is you coming home.

to the one I still carry quietly‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

I think you would be surprised to see me now, because I know you always thought I would fall apart without you, and for a while I thought so too, but somehow the days kept arriving and I kept waking up to meet them, making breakfast, answering messages, laughing at stupid things, going outside when the weather is nice, and pretending I don't notice the little ache that follows me through all of it like a shadow I have learned not to turn around and look at. I still miss you, more than I know how to say, but I have stopped believing that missing you means I have to stop living.

sometimes I laugh and immediately feel guilty, because there was a time when happiness felt like something I had no right to touch after losing you, but then I remember that you would have hated that, you would have told me to stop making everything so heavy and go enjoy the day, so I do. I watch sunsets, I buy flowers, I listen to songs you would have made fun of, and sometimes I find myself smiling so genuinely that I almost forget you are gone until that familiar ache returns somewhere beneath my ribs, quiet but unmistakable, reminding me that there will always be a part of every beautiful thing I experience that I wish I could have shared with you.

I don't think I will ever stop wondering what you would think of the person I am becoming, and perhaps that is okay, because I still talk to you in my head when something wonderful happens, still save little stories for you, still look toward the empty space beside me when I have something important to say. I am living, though, truly living, and I hope wherever you are, that makes you happy, because loving you taught me that a life can continue after loss without becoming a life that forgets.

so I am going to keep going.

I will keep laughing too loudly, keep making plans, keep meeting people, keep finding reasons to wake up excited about tomorrow, and I will carry you with me through all of it, not as a wound I have to keep touching, but as a quiet part of my heart that will always remember how lucky I was to have loved you at all.

I miss you. i probably always will.

to the one I never learned how to stop loving‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌‌ ‌‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

I wish I could tell you that I am angry, that losing you made me resent you for leaving me here with all these words and nowhere to put them, but every time I try, all that comes out is how much I miss you, and perhaps that is the most humiliating thing about loving someone after they are gone. I still remember you in the quietest moments, when the room is dark and there is no one around to see my face change, and I let myself miss you then, because I still have a little pride left and I refuse to let the world know how often my heart reaches for someone it can never touch again.

I hope you knew how much I loved you, even when I was too stubborn to say it properly, even when I pretended I didn't care because caring that much frightened me, because you were the only person who could make me feel so completely seen and so completely vulnerable at the same time. I would give almost anything for one more conversation with you, but I won't beg the silence to answer me, and I won't pretend I am not angry that you left me with a love that has nowhere to go.

so I will carry it quietly.

I will keep your memory somewhere no one can reach, and I will let myself smile when I remember the good things, even if there is an ache underneath every smile, because loving you was never something I wanted to be ashamed of. You were mine for a while, and I was yours, and maybe that should be enough to make peace with the fact that I cannot have you anymore.

I still love you. I just won't let you know how much.