I think if I could sit across from you now —
not as the boy you once knew, not as the mess you left behind —
but just… me, as I am today —
I wouldn't ask questions anymore.
I wouldn't ask why you left, or if you ever missed me.
I wouldn't ask what I did wrong.
I wouldn't even ask if you still remember.
I would just look at you.
And I think I'd just talk.
Maybe not even about us. Maybe about stupid things.
The weird street vendor I passed yesterday.
The way tea tastes different when you sip it from a chipped mug.
How I saw a cat today that looked too wise for its age, and I couldn't tell if that was comforting or sad.
I'd probably fidget with the rim of my glass.
Or rearrange the sugar packets on the table.
You'd laugh at that. Or maybe you wouldn't.
Either way, I think I'd be okay.
I wouldn't try to impress you. I wouldn't try to convince you that I'm better, or worse, or anything at all.
I think for once, I'd just let the silence between us be what it is —
not a void to be filled, not a plea, not a cliffhanger. Just… space.
And if you didn't fill it, I wouldn't panic this time.
I'd let the air sit quiet. I'd sip whatever's in my cup and nod.
Like I finally learned how to hold my own hand under the table.
That's something I never learned while you were around —
how to let things be.
How to speak without expectation.
How to feel something and not demand that it matters to someone else.
I don't think I loved you wrong.
I think I loved you too loud.
Too often. Too fast. Maybe even too soon.
Like I was scared that if I paused, I'd lose you.
And look at me now. I did anyway.
But now, I think I'm learning how to love in quiet ways —
Ways that don't echo back, but still exist.
Ways that don't need applause, or replies, or reassurance.
Ways that look like brushing my teeth before bed. Or drinking water without thinking of you.
If I could say anything to you now, it wouldn't be a grand confession.
It'd be simple. Honest.
Like,
"Sometimes I still see you in places you've never been."
Or,
"I've started sleeping a little better, even if some nights still betray me."
Or
"There are days I walk past people who wear your perfume and feel nothing. And some days, it stops me cold."
Or maybe just,
"I don't hate you. I don't worship you. You're just… part of the story. My story.
That's all."
That's what healing is, I think.
Not forgetting.
Not pretending.
Just remembering without needing it to burn anymore.
Just sitting in front of the past and saying,
"I survived you. Not gloriously. But fully."
Maybe that's all we really get?
Not closure. Not clarity.
Just the quiet understanding that we were real once, and now we're not —
and the world kept turning anyway.
I used to think survival meant moving on cleanly. Like some shiny, new chapter would magically begin, and you'd be erased.
But it doesn't work like that.
Survival is messy.
It's remembering someone without choking.
It's waking up and not reaching for your phone.
It's hearing their name in a crowded place and not flinching like it's yours.
It's letting the ache exist — but no longer needing it to justify anything.
If I could say all of this out loud,
I don't even think I'd look you in the eyes the whole time.
I'd probably glance at the window.
Trace the condensation on the glass with my fingertip.
And talk like I'm remembering someone else's story.
Because maybe that's what it is now.
Not ours. Not yours. Not mine.
Just something that once was.
There's something bittersweet about that.
Like looking at an old scar —
you remember the pain, but it's dull now.
You don't wince. You don't hide it.
You just know it's there, part of your skin, part of your past.
If you asked me today, "Was it worth it?"
I'd still say yes.
Even with the way it ended.
Even with the silence.
Even with the unanswered messages and the slow disappearance.
Because for a while, I meant something to someone I cared about.
And even though it didn't last, that part was real.
And sometimes, that's enough.
Even if it's just for me.