We stopped talking long before we stopped staying, and the silence grew sharp enough to cut clean through the chest. Every unsaid word carved distance between us, until holding the space felt easier than carrying the weight of what we never said.

Closure isn't a conversation, it's acceptance.

Say what you couldn’t. Spit out the truth you swallowed until it burned, I would survived the quiet.

The Weight Of What Could've Been.

“What did loving them feel like?”
Like sunlight in November. Warm, but never enough to stay. I cherished them in silence, the way autumn venerates the vanishing radiance. Certain conclusions don't shatter they wither, and somehow the affection lingers far beyond the presence that once embodied it.

“If your love story was a song, what would it sound like?”
Maybe it's like the kind of melody that lingers long after the last note dies, slow and aching like “Always” — by Keshi. The sound of holding on long after they let go, the quiet tremble between staying and surrendering, and the hush that feels like winter settling into your bones.

When the night comes, it brings back every quiet ache, turning a steady heartbeat into a shaky one as the trace of an old touch returns and creates small cracks behind a smile that looks fine on the surface, while the longing, uninvited and stubborn arrives like a soft breeze that actually burns with memories that have already turned cold.

One gentle touch is enough to break every wall carefully built over time.

ㅤㅤ