The nights are longer now. Or maybe they just feel that way because I've stopped trying to fill them with anything but this silence. The walks don't help anymore. I thought they did, for a while. Though maybe moving through the places we shared would help me let go. But they don't. They just remind me of everything I can't get back.
I find myself standing in places I shouldn't be…the edge of the bridge we once crossed together, the rooftop of the building where we used to watch the stars. I stand there, staring down, staring out, staring at nothing. And for the first time, I feel… calm.
Not because I've made peace with anything. But because for the first time, I see a way to make the noise stop. The ache, the weight, the endless loop of memories that won't let me go. I look at the drop below me and I think: maybe this is how I let go. Maybe this is the only way to stop wanting what's already gone.
No more pretending. No more trying. Just quiet.
But then, something holds me there, frozen. A thought, small and fragile, but louder than everything else for just a second: If I go, the last thing that will exist of me will be this choice. And I don't want that to be my story.
And so I stay. Not because I want to. Not because I've found hope or strength. But because something…I don't even know what, tells me not yet.
I step back. I sat down. And for the first time, I cry. Not the silent tears that come at night in bed. Real tears. The kind that leaves you shaking, empty, exhausted. The kind that makes the world blur until you can't see the edge anymore.
And when they stop, I'm still here.
I don't know why.
But I am.