❝ In every silence, there’s a story that forgot how to end. ❞

Some memories do not fade; they simply change their form.
They live inside photographs, in half-written letters, in the silence between raindrops.

I used to think time would be kind — that distance would turn everything softer, less cruel.
But it never did.

Time passed, and she remained the same in my mind:
a quiet smile, a laugh that never reached her eyes near the end,
and the way she once said my name as if it meant something.

I was too certain then. Too sure that love would wait.
It didn’t.

- par d. Moreau

The Memory

There was a place we used to go —
an old street where the lamps hummed low and the air smelled faintly of rust and perfume.
She would walk a few steps ahead, her coat swaying with the wind,
never looking back but knowing I was there.

Sometimes she’d turn around, pretending to scold me for being slow,
and I’d laugh — that kind of laugh that comes easy when you don’t yet know what you’re about to lose.

She left quietly. No anger, no scene. Just absence —
and the echo of her steps that still follow me when the night grows too still.

The Present

The air smells faintly of rain and varnish —
the kind of scent that clings to an old studio where sunlight has forgotten to visit.

I stand before an unfinished canvas, the brush resting idle in my hand.
I haven’t painted for weeks. The colors have started to dry out,
much like the words I never said in time.

People often mistake my silence for cruelty, my distance for pride.
Perhaps they’re not wrong. There was a time I believed affection could wait —
that love, once found, would stay.

But she had left long before I realized the truth.
And now, only her laughter lingers in corners of the room where light still dares to exist.

entry no. 01 | Oktober, 1994

❝ I never meant to lose her. I just never learned how to keep her. ❞

The house still smells like her perfume — faint, like the last note of a song that refuses to end.
I walk past the piano sometimes, still half expecting her laughter to spill into the room.
But it’s gone now, like everything else I didn’t hold onto long enough.

I remember her sitting by the window, tracing shapes in the fogged glass. She said it looked like we were living inside a dream.
Maybe we were — or maybe I was the only one dreaming, thinking love could survive neglect.

People call me cold. Maybe they’re right.
But she knew better — she saw the warmth I tried so hard to hide behind sharp words and restless ambition.
She just grew tired of waiting for me to love her properly.

Now, every silence feels like her — patient, distant, and unforgiving.
And I keep writing, because it’s the only way I know to speak to her... even if she’ll never read another word from me.

— par d. moreau