Sometimes I remember what you did to me, and I still adore you
I don’t wait for you anymore, but something in me still does
It’s 11 p.m. Dark and silent.
I remember you, though the image is no longer precise. It’s been two years since I last saw you, so the memory belongs neither to your present self nor entirely to the past. I’m sure you had more freckles on your face than those I can still count from memory. Your voice, though now faint, still echoes sweetly in my thoughts, quickening my heart’s pace. Just the thought of it makes me smile beneath the warmth of this blanket.
I often find myself drifting back to you, to just before you became a menace to me. Before you turned your back and never, ever, tried to look back and find what you left behind.
I make a conscious choice to relive the joy of our shared laughter and the effortless comfort we found in each other, intentionally setting aside the fear and suspicion that eventually poisoned the bond we had. This selective memory allows me a temporary escape from the reality you built for us.
The wound, however, was not the ending itself but the way you left. Not once did you stop, never once did your eyes stray back to acknowledge the ruin you were creating, the connection you were discarding, or the value of what you had thrown away.
I often feel as though time has stood still in January. I didn’t know then that just a month later you would disappear, leaving me to miss you forever and remember your face from afar. Especially, in that moment at your house when we were laughing. We laughed so hard that time seemed irrelevant, and suddenly it was nearly 2 a.m.
But we didn’t care.
What should have been a curfew was merely a suggestion we both ignored. The world outside slept; we were awake in our own bubble.
We kept talking, moving from silly stories to profound confessions, laughing loudly enough to risk waking your neighbors, and soaking up every second of each other’s presence like a vitamin.
That night, your face, lit by the glow of the ceiling lamp, was a promise of forever I foolishly believed in. It is that promise, broken just weeks later, that still makes January feel like an endless wait, suspended just before the life-altering February where the laughter stopped and the silence began.
You used to be so kind to me.
The kindest, even.
You were the one who never wanted me to stop talking, who welcomed every rambling thought. You’d lean in, your eyes alight with genuine interest, making me feel as though my voice was the most important sound you had ever heard. Until you met her, I guess.
From then on, all you wanted from me was distance.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever grew to hate me. It’s a bitter thought to consider that the affection you once showed could curdle into such a strong resentment. Yet, the question haunts me, demanding an answer I can never truly have. Because, in the tenderness of your voice, I could never guess a little bit of hatred. Especially not towards me.
What happened to you?
I search my memories for a moment when I unknowingly ruined what we had, but I find only moments of friendship and mutual trust… so, for a long time, this story didn’t feel complete; it still doesn’t.
I never told you this, nor to anyone, but I must confess now: you were the first time I felt like I had my person. And I always believed that when you find your person, it’s mutual. It had to be, didn’t it? The certainty I felt, the comfort of your presence, the belief that we were meant to find each other... I thought that kind of knowing was a shared experience between us.
So, when you left, I didn’t only get heartbroken, but I also lost my person. And you never cared.
It was a brutal cessation. All the intimacy and shared secrets dissolved into nothingness for you.
Was my person just a projection, a beautiful illusion I desperately built? Did I misunderstand what we had?
I was bitter because she received the chance I had always wanted but never got. You found your true connection in her, and I understand now: she was worth losing me over.
Up to this day, I still haven’t found my person. It always leaves me wondering if it was really you, but I’m sure it wasn’t. It cannot be, can it?
How could my person be someone who walked away?
There must be someone else.
Before you, the idea of loving someone deeply or spending my life with anyone repulsed me. I avoided closeness, resisted comfort, and distanced myself from every potential connection. With you, however, it was different: everything made sense to me; it was effortless, and the urge to push you away simply vanished. You showed me that I am capable of love.
And while the thought of me hasn’t crossed your mind since the day you left, the thought of you haunts me all the time. And I hate it. I despise this involuntary devotion, this loyalty to a ghost. And then I find myself freaking out each time I realize there is one less detail left of your face in my memory, because it feels like losing you for the second and last time.
I keep not letting myself erase the thought of you.
Perhaps that’s my punishment on earth, or maybe it’s this love trying desperately to find a place to live, even if that sanctuary is the ruin of my own peace of mind.
also, happy holidays to everyone reading this! i hope you have a wonderful time <3