I don’t know how to stop loving you.
I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried.
I’ve whispered to myself a thousand reasons why I should let go. I’ve listed all the times you looked through me like I was no one, all the moments you chose someone else, the way your silence stings more than any goodbye ever could.
But none of it works.
Because every time I breathe, it’s your name I feel clinging to the air.
And I hate that. I hate how my heart still calls for you, even when you're miles away — not in distance, but in spirit. Emotionally untouchable. Cold in ways I wish I could learn.
You don’t know.
You don’t know that I stay up some nights just staring at my ceiling, wondering what it would feel like if you loved me back.
Wondering what your laugh would sound like if it was mine to hear.
Wondering how warm your hands would feel if they held mine without pulling away.
I love you in a way that hurts.
Not the pretty kind — not roses and music and poetry.
It’s the kind that chokes. That burns behind the eyes. That ruins every song because somehow they all remind me of you.
You live in places you shouldn’t — in my dreams, in the clothes I wear, in the mirror when I try to smile and it doesn’t reach my eyes anymore.
You’ve moved on. Or maybe you were never here to begin with.
And yet, I remain — loving you in silence, in agony, in invisible ways.
If I had the chance to tell you everything, really tell you, I think I’d fall apart halfway through.
I think I’d break right there in front of you, because my love was never soft — it was a storm I kept swallowing, over and over, just to protect you from it.
But if — one day — you ever turn to me, even just for a second, and ask why I never let go...
I’ll look at you, with every shattered piece still glowing, and say:
“Because no one else ever felt like home the way you did.”
And maybe that’s tragic.
But it’s the truth.
— H.