A Conversation I Never Got to Have With You

       

        You know, I read a line the other day, 

“How many versions of you are buried in the places you once called home?” 

and instantly, you showed up in my mind like a ghost. It made me think about all the selves I left behind in the spaces we once shared. And honestly? It’s strange how I still talk to you as if you’re listening. Like I can still meet your eyes in the silence, like closure is a thing that might still arrive if I just keep speaking into the dark.

        I wonder if you ever think about those versions of me, the girl who trusted you too much, loved you too loudly, hoped for you too bravely. I buried her the day you left without warning, without explanation, without even a single word to hold onto. Yet every now and then, I find myself returning to her grave, leaving apologies like flowers, whispering “I’m sorry you didn’t get the love you deserved.” You should know I’m not apologizing for loving you. I’m apologizing for how small she made herself to keep you comfortable.

        But here’s something I’ve never said out loud: I kept going back, hoping maybe you had visited too. Maybe you’d left a memory, a sign, something soft that said I mattered more than silence. But I found nothing, not even a trace. You moved on like I was a page you tore out, when I thought I was a chapter you lived inside. And yeah, that stings. It cuts in ways I still don’t have proper language for.

        Still, here I am. Talking to you. Talking with you, even though you’re long gone and probably wouldn’t recognize this version of me unless I spelled her out. Maybe that’s the wildest part: I came back to honour the girl who loved you, even when you never showed up to honour what we had. I guess that’s who I’ve always been, the one who gives, the one who returns, even where others don’t.

        You know what I realized? She wasn’t coming back to check whether you remembered. She was coming back because she needed to remember herself. The girl you knew is gone, buried, mourned, laid to rest by her own shaking hands. But she mattered. She lived. She loved you with a sincerity that deserved more than a disappearing act.

        So Mr Sweet Nothing, she is letting you go like you let her go, quietly, but with intent. Not like an unfinished sentence, but like a chapter she can finally close. Just know this: I’m done apologizing for visiting my own ghosts. I’m done waiting for your flowers. If anyone deserved to leave something beautiful at that grave, it was always going to be me.

                        

And maybe, in some weird, cosmic, late-night way… this is my goodbye to you.

The one you never had the guts to give.

NB: "All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely intentional" 🙂‍↔️