The last letter
My days have changed lately. I’m across the world now — new job, new routine, new friends. Everything around me feels different, but somehow, the thought of you still lingers like a quiet echo in the back of my mind.
I keep wondering what if things could have been different between us? What if love alone had been enough?
I never wanted to give up on us. I waited — not for miracles, but for a version of you that would choose me the way I chose you. I wanted you to love me without me having to chase after the smallest pieces of affection, without having to fight for respect that should’ve been given freely.
I changed so much for you. I smiled, pretended to be happy, and told myself this was growth. I convinced myself that love was supposed to hurt sometimes, that silence was patience, that distance was normal. I lied to myself because the truth — that I was losing myself — was too heavy to face.
I held on to the good memories like lifelines. The laughter, the late-night talks, the feeling of safety that came when you held me — I replayed them over and over, hoping they could cover up the pain that followed.
To me, you were everything. You still are, in ways I wish you weren’t. Even now, sitting here, writing this letter, pretending to be strong and unbothered, I can’t deny it — I still love you.
But I don’t deserve this kind of love — the kind that makes me question my worth, the kind that turns my heart into a waiting room for someone who has already left. You act like I mean nothing to you, and maybe that’s the truth. Maybe I was nothing to you all along.
And yet, despite everything, a part of me still hopes you think of me sometimes — maybe when a song comes on, or when you pass a place we once went. I hope, for a second, you remember what we were before everything fell apart.
But this is my last letter to you. Not because I stopped loving you, but because I finally started loving myself more.
