I can still hear the way her laugh used to echo in my apartment, filling the silence with warmth. Tonight, though, the silence was heavier than ever. We sat on the couch, side by side, but it felt like miles stretched between us.
I took a deep breath, my chest tight. “I don’t think we’re us anymore,” I said, the words trembling as they left me. Her eyes flicked to mine, wide and wet, and for a moment I wanted to take it back, to pretend everything was fine.
She shook her head slowly. “I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking. That hurt more than anything - knowing she had been carrying the same weight, the same ache, and neither of us had the courage to say it until now.
Memories rushed in, uninvited: the first time she held my hand, the way she danced barefoot in the kitchen, the nights we stayed up talking about dreams we thought we’d chase together. I wanted to hold onto those moments, but they slipped through me like water.
We cried, not loudly, not angrily, but softly, like two people mourning something beautiful that had simply run its course. I reached for her hand, and she let me hold it. For a few minutes, we sat there, grieving the love we’d built, knowing it was time to let it go.
When she finally stood to leave, I walked her to the door. She turned back once, her face streaked with tears, and gave me a smile that was both heartbreaking and tender. “Thank you for loving me,” she said.
And then she was gone.
I stood in the doorway long after, staring at the empty street, feeling both shattered and strangely grateful. Because even though it ended, I knew I’d carry the sweetness of what we had — the laughter, the love, the quiet moments — for the rest of my life.