I said I was fine, because it was expected.
We were only supposed to last a month, anyway.
That was the deal, the quiet understanding neither of us spoke out loud.
And I kept my end of it.
I played my role as your lover perfectly,
laughed when I was supposed to,
listened, when you spoke about dreams I would never be part of,
and loved you like there wasn't an expiration date ticking above our heads.
I gave you what I could within that month,
knowing I'd have to let go when time demanded it.
But it wasn't until there were seven days left
that everything started to fall apart.
You stopped answering.
Calls turned to missed calls,
messages hung unread,
and silence became the only response I received.
At first, I thought maybe you were busy.
Then I thought maybe you were scared.
But when the silence stretched too long,
it finally hit me,
I was played. Again.
You didn't ask for a second chance because you loved me.
You asked because you couldn't stand
how well I was doing without you.
It wasn't affection that brought you back;
it was ego.
You couldn't stand being replaced in a story you once owned.
And now here I am,
broken again,
not because I was foolish,
but because I was kind.
Because I believed that love deserved a second chance,
even when the first one almost destroyed me.
I don't know what the next step is.
I don't know how long this ache will stay.
But I do know this,
I'll forget you with time.
Not suddenly, not all at once,
but slowly, like a scar fading under sunlight.
And when I finally do,
you'll be nothing more than a lesson
I had to learn the hard way:
that some people come back
not to love you again,
but to remind you why you should never have loved them back.